


Nothing Gives Easy

by dafeedil



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Cage Fights, Eventual Fluff, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mixed Martial Arts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, mental illness in a minor character, there's like a panic attack or two so be careful, y'know for a fic about cagefighting there is a suspicious lack of abundant fighting in cages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 05:17:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 65,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8043952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dafeedil/pseuds/dafeedil
Summary: Michael Clifford is the newest and biggest name in the Ultimate Fighting Championship. Outranking dozens of fighters and known around the world for his ability to annihilate everyone in the Lightweight class within the first few minutes of every match, he’s a force to be reckoned with. But there’s talk outside the ring, and apparently, sponsors don’t want to support someone who uses years of pent up rage to his advantage anymore.
Calum Hood hasn’t set foot in the ring for years, much preferring to find his solace in reruns of old fights and a constantly diminishing supply of Vicodin. Theoretically, he should be the absolute last person the UFC officials ask to train Michael.
And yet.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> hoooooooly shit okay. I literally started this fic in July of last year??? It's taken me soooo long to figure out its direction, to find my voice for it, etc., but it's here now! And God, do I hope y'all love it as much as I've come to.
> 
> So many thanks to [Autumn](http://wynw00d.tumblr.com/), who helped me to come up with the original idea last summer. And plenty of thanks need to go to [Emi](http://lucasashtons.tumblr.com/), who has been there every single step of the way ever since I finally picked this back up a couple months ago. I owe you both so much. And then, ofc, [Mich](http://lilacpages.tumblr.com), for the lovely cover art!!
> 
> If you're interested in the playlist, you can have a listen on [Spotify!](https://play.spotify.com/user/dafeedil13/playlist/3CZ8yOa8Cy7ZkxLDATWx67)
> 
> Now, without further ado...

“You ever heard of Michael Clifford?”

It’s the first thing Luke says when Calum goes to sit down across from him in their usual booth at the pub. In lieu of a greeting like friends usually dish out, and as a replacement for generally _anything_ Luke would’ve ordinarily said, he asks Calum about a boy he’s never heard of in his life.

Taking his time with his reply, Calum looks Luke pointedly in the eye as if to somehow express how irritated he is to have been bombarded with irrelevant questions before he’s even properly put his ass on the seat. Luke seems to get that, having always been able to read Calum better than anyone else, and he chews his lip apologetically before he motions for Calum to go ahead and get comfortable.

“Where would I have heard of Michael Clifford?” Calum asks, sliding out of his jacket and wincing as the movement makes his shoulder lock up. He can feel Luke’s sympathetic frown on him as he shakes the pain out of the muscles and joints, so he quickly speaks again before Luke can do something stupid like ask him if he’s taken any painkillers today, because of course he has. Luke should know better than to wonder if maybe he hasn’t, especially after all this time. “Did we go to school with him?”

Luke scoffs, shaking his head. “No.” He pauses for a second, like he’s thinking, before he shakes his head again. “I mean, maybe he _could’ve_ gone to our school, but he’s too young to have been there before we graduated.” Luke trails off, lost in his own head again, and Calum rolls his eyes at how easily distracted his best friend always seems to be. He reaches instead for the menu when his stomach rumbles, eyes immediately scanning for the burgers.

“I’m sure you had a point, Luke, yeah?” Calum prompts, throwing out a line for Luke to grab onto. His best friend’s eyes clear up, like he suddenly remembers where he was going with this whole conversation, and he slams his hands down on the table eagerly. The pale, lanky limbs cover up the section of the menu he’d been reading, though, and Calum frowns.

“He’s a fighter. I guess he just turned twenty two a few months ago, so he’s pretty new, but he’s _really_ good.” Luke explains, quickly pulling his hands back once he realizes that they’re in Calum’s way. “You might not recognize his name, but maybe you’ve seen him fight?”

Calum definitely hasn’t seen him fight. There’s no way in hell he would’ve seen this Clifford guy fight, because Calum hasn’t watched a single UFC match since 2013, unless it was a decades old rerun, and Luke knows that. Luke _has_ to know that. 

When Calum looks up from the menu, he sees his best friend’s eyes pouring out hopefulness, light blue mixed with something that looks like _pleading_ , but he can’t indulge Luke. The guy's just fishing at this point, as if today is somehow the day that everything is going to go back to normal, to how it was before. Like suddenly one day, out of the blue, Calum just _won’t_ be like this anymore.

Instead of being snarky like he kind of wants to be, Calum just shakes his head and feigns interest. “Can’t say that I have. What’s his record?”

Luke seems to take a follow up question as the next best response, and he perks up in his seat. “So far, 7 and 0. He kicks ass, Cal, I’m telling you. He wins his matches faster than we’ve seen in the league in _years_. The dudes in Lightweights can’t even keep up with him, he’s literally _annihilating_ everyone he gets put up against.”

And while three years ago Calum would’ve found these facts to be fascinating and worthy of hours long discussions, all he finds them to be right now are boring and a waste of his time. As if on cue, the muscles in his shoulder start burning, like a reminder, and he has half a mind to reach into his pocket and pull out the orange prescription bottle that he’s hidden there.

The agony setting in must be showing on his face, because the worry lines on Luke’s forehead return almost immediately. “Have you been keeping up with physical therapy?”

It’s the question Calum’s sort of been expecting, because Luke always asks it even though he must know the answer is always going to be the same. “It won’t help anything. The doctors said it was going to hurt no matter what.”

Luke makes a grumbling noise of protest. “The doctors said it was going to hurt no matter what for a couple of _months_ , not for three _years_.”

“Yeah, well, the doctors aren’t gods. Sometimes it doesn’t just last a couple of months, Luke.” Defiantly, Calum reaches into his pocket, uncapping the bottle and shaking it until a small white pill falls into his palm. He stares Luke down as he pops it in his mouth, swallowing dryly, and it feels like a pathetic kind of victory.

Luke sighs, leaning back in the booth and tapping his short nails on the wooden table between them. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Poxleitner was the one that told me to make sure you kept going to see the therapist, Cal. You can’t get mad at me every time I ask you to go get your fucking shoulder taken care of.”

He wants to tell Luke that it’s not just his shoulder that hurts, or that it never was. Wants to tell Luke that he still gets the migraines and that he wakes up most days feeling like he got run over by a truck in his sleep. But he doesn’t say that, because then they’d have to talk about it. And really, who the hell would want to talk about it?

“What’s the deal with this new kid?” Calum asks instead, and to his actual surprise, Luke doesn’t reprimand him for so obviously changing the subject.

Luke must have some big story he’s itching to share, since he immediately straightens his posture and looks Calum straight in the eye. “As I was saying, he’s, like, the UFC’s sweetheart, right? Except he beats the actual shit out of everybody they pit him against.” He sputters a little when he sees the way Calum sinks in on himself, and he chews on his lower lip, sucking on the metal piercing that lays there. “Sorry, that's…bad word choice. It’s just, like, there’s no better way to explain it.”

Calum shrugs, picking at a callus on his thumb. His appetite is pretty much gone at this point, so he puts the menu back in its holder. “Well, you’re still in the league. Are you scheduled to fight him or something? Is that why you asked me to meet you here? Did you want an expert’s advice before you go to get your ass kicked?”

The words have more bite to them than he means, and Luke just sighs because he must be used to it. Calum feels a little bad that his best friend since high school is accustomed to being bitched at by him, but he feels just a _little_ bit worse for himself. Maybe he just likes wallowing in self pity, but still. He figures he’s allowed, considering.

“No, I don’t have any more fights scheduled this year. And he’s not supposed to have any, either, except.” Luke trails off, looking like he’s lost in his own head while he searches for the right words, but they don’t seem to be coming. Calum’s just more confused than he was before.

“Look, Lu, I really don’t see what this kid’s fight schedule or personal record has to do with me. And, seeing as you’re not going to be involved with him in any way, I don’t really see what it’s got to do with _you_ , either.” It’s only when he’s finished speaking that he realizes his fingers are white-knuckling the edge of his seat, so he watches his hands carefully as he slowly forces himself to relax the digits, one by one.

Luke clears his throat, drawing Calum’s attention back to his face, and he’s frowning. “The league is pushing to move him up a weight class as soon as possible, because nobody in the Lightweights stands a chance against him. Clifford’s gained the few pounds that he needed, but they’ve scheduled a fight for him in three months with someone from Middleweights, to see how it goes, if he’ll still be as popular, or something.” He leans a little closer, voice gone a tad lower, as if the next part is a secret of some kind. “Between you and me, though, I think there's a whole lot more to it than that.”

Calum furrows his eyebrows, irritated. He always knew the league was a bit corrupted and rigged, but the way Luke’s dancing around the whole _more to it than that_ thing makes him wonder if the fight itself is going to be rigged, or staged, or something.

After what happened to him, if there’s one thing in this world that Calum values, it’s a fair fight.

“There’s, um. There’s been talk.” Luke says, taking a deep breath, like he’s nervous. “His manager approached me. Said he’s willing to pay you twenty thousand if you’ll be the one to train him for that fight.”

And that’s, well. That’s like a kick to the gut, and it still hurts in comparison to all the times that Calum’s _actually_ been kicked in the gut. It hurts that Luke would dare to ask something like this of him, and it hurts that this manager he hasn’t even _met_ is heartless enough to request _Calum_ , of all people, to train a UFC fighter when he hasn’t even been _near_ the ring in almost three years.

“Well,” Calum says sharply. “First of all, fuck you.”

Luke’s face falls, and then so does the rest of his body. “Calum, come on.”

His blood boils, and he can feel his skin starting to get sticky with sweat. There’s black dots dancing along the outskirts of his vision, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to make them dissipate. “How the fuck could you ask me to do that, Luke? How can you sit there and know what I’ve been through, and _still_ ask me to work with some ruthless fighter?” When Luke doesn’t say anything, Calum blinks his eyes open, feeling tears swimming in them, and he finds Luke staring blankly back at him. “Did you really think that I would say _yes_ to that?”

Luke sighs, and he rubs his temples. “You may not get in the ring anymore, but you were damn brilliant when you did. This kid _needs_ someone like you, Cal.”

Calum scoffs, shaking his head. He can still feel his shoulder flaring up, the muscles and tendons irritated in his newfound rage, and he tightens his jaw to fight the urge he's getting to take another pill. "That's not me anymore, Luke. You know that."

He hears a heavy sigh, but it's not one of exasperation. It's just _sad_ —pure and thick with defeat. It came from Luke, of course, but somehow that just makes it all _worse_. Calum Hood, disappointing Luke Hemmings since 2006. He should put it on his resume.

"I knew you'd say that." Luke shrugs, picking at the napkin wrapped around his silverware. In spite of his best efforts not to, Calum finds himself feeling sort of incredibly awful about the way he'd snapped at his friend. Even if he _had_ deserved it. "So I'd like to propose an idea."

And honestly, he probably should've expected that. Luke rarely goes into _anything_ without a backup plan, and he _knows_ that. Calum's been friends with Luke for coming up on ten years now—there's not much he _doesn't_ know about the guy in front of him.

He's not exactly _interested_ in Luke's idea, but he's also not interested in pushing Luke so far away that he can't reel him back in anymore. So, mostly to save whatever damage he's caused between them in the ten minutes they've been sitting in this booth, Calum nods, and decides to hear him out.

Luke seems surprised at the gesture, but he recovers quickly so that he doesn't lose his opportunity. "I'll fight him for you. I'm in Middleweights, just like you were. I could handle it."

Before he can help it, Calum's snorting, rolling his eyes. "Don't be so stoic, Luke. I don't need you to fight my battles for me."

Almost instantly, Luke's snapping back, "Yes, you fucking _do_. Because you won't fight them yourself."

He's completely serious, from what Calum can tell, his eyebrows flat above his narrowed eyes. His frown lines have returned, more common than his laugh lines whenever he's in Calum's presence, it seems, and the fist he'd banged on the table to accentuate his point is so rigid it looks like he's in a match. With nervous eyes, Calum follows Luke's arm back up to his face, swallowing dryly when Luke doesn't back down.

What hurts the most about what Luke's said is that he's _right_. Calum won't fight anybody for anything anymore, and Luke would have to be blind or blissfully ignorant not to notice that, after all this time.

When he sees that Calum has nothing to say, Luke leans back in his seat, unclenching his fist and shaking his fingers out. "It'll be all under wraps. No publicity of any kind, because Clifford’s manager doesn't want the paps to find out what his fighter's up to any more than you want them to know you're near a cage again."

Calum furrows his eyebrows, confused. "How can you possibly ensure no publicity? People leak info to the media all the time. They'll know I'm involved in under a week, I guarantee it."

Luke shakes his head. "Unlikely. The manager's renting space from Frangipane. You _know_ Ashley, she keeps her gyms on a fucking _lockdown_."

And yeah, it's hard _not_ to be comforted by the idea of training at one of Frangipane's gyms. She's renowned in the world of professional MMA for giving fighters off-the-radar locations to train, often isolated and unmarked buildings with discreet pick up/drop off. She's offered him several locations to help him get back on his feet on multiple occasions, continuously insisting that she could protect him from prying eyes while he got his strength back, but he'd never taken her up on it. Never even called her back, just bitterly deleted her messages like he did everyone else's.

Still, he murmurs, "I don't know, Luke."

Luke rests a hand on Calum's wrist, gentle but sure like he's done a thousand times. Calum hones in on it, watching as Luke squeezes just slightly.

"And that's fine. You don't have to decide right now, okay? But it's twenty grand. Sorry to say it, buddy, but that's money you could use, and you know it." Luke gives him a look like he wishes he wasn't right, but he _is_ , and Calum _does_ know it. He's been skating by for the past couple years, his biggest form of income having been cut off entirely following the events of three years ago. "I'll be the one in the ring with the guy. All you've gotta do is _teach_ him, Cal. Give him a _chance_." Luke laughs gently, almost like he doesn't really mean to do it. "Hell, just give _yourself_ a chance."

Truthfully, Calum can see the appeal of chances. He really can. He believes in getting a second go at writing wrongs. He believes that odds can be in the favor of the last person you'd ever expect. In getting the opportunity to save yourself or somebody else.

He just doesn't believe in them when _he’s_ the one at stake.

 

*******   
  


Calum’s apartment is hardly a step above awful. There’s no way to tiptoe around it, really. The place is dreary, isolated, and an absolute drag to be around. But then again, arguably, so is Calum.

Lunch with Luke has taken almost everything out of him, so the second Calum unlocks his door, he’s set on shuffling to his bedroom for a well deserved nap. He pauses only briefly to kick off his shoes and press the ‘delete’ button on his answering machine without even listening to the three new voicemails that’d accumulated while he was out. He’s not sure why anyone bothers to call anymore, or why he hasn’t just shut the damn thing off.

He can’t stop thinking about Luke’s proposal. Even after he climbs into bed and buries his face underneath the pillows to block out the afternoon sunlight that’s streaming in, his head keeps buzzing around the idea, refusing to let it go. He knows it’s probably not a _good_ idea, getting involved with anything regarding fighting whatsoever. But Calum’s never been prone to good ideas, so he finds himself sitting up against the headboard and pulling his MacBook onto his lap a few moments later without so much as a second rational thought.

Before he can psyche himself out, he types in the URL that he remembers, relieved when he finds the UFC’s kept the same one after three years. He hasn’t visited the site in ages, hasn’t kept up with the old fighters’ stats, or _any_ of the newcomers’, which is why he hadn’t known about Michael Clifford (who, according to the UFC homepage's promotional photo of him, is _unfairly_ attractive). He doesn’t even look like he should _be_ in the league, his body too slim and his arms seemingly less beefy than the people he goes up against. His hair is a dyed flamboyant red, and it looks too soft, too styled. His green eyes, too gentle.

His record, though (7 and 0, just like Luke had said), proves that he must be doing _something_ right. Must be making up for his lack of physical mass in other ways, since the bar of stats next to Clifford’s photo tells Calum he won his last match in just under two minutes. Next to impossible, for most fighters in the league, so he thinks initially that it must be some kind of fluke. But a click on Clifford’s ‘read more’ tells Calum that the record setting time is a repeat occurrence. Which.

Calum hovers the mouse over the play button on the video of Clifford’s last match, the shooting pain his shoulder is sending up through his neck and down to his wrist successfully distracting him. He’s pretty sure it’s acting up because he’s stressing himself out with this, but he can’t help it. Twenty thousand dollars is a _lot_ of money, which Calum needs. And as much as he’d like to, he can’t go into anything blind. He needs to see just what this Clifford guy has up his sleeve.

So he presses play.

The initial roar of the crowd in the clip makes Calum wince, the sound amplified in his head and bouncing around, seemingly trapped there now that he’s allowed it in. But he powers through it, peripheral vision catching on the small prescription bottle on his nightstand. Subconsciously, his hand twitches towards it, but he forces himself to refrain. For now.

Collier comes out first, and he’s someone that Calum recognizes. He’d been twenty four the last time Calum saw him fight, and from what he remembers from two years ago, the guy’s always had a really strong record. His strike count is high, relatively effective and efficient. But Clifford has apparently pummeled him within the first round, and Calum finds himself wondering if Collier got worse, or if the twenty two year old up and comer he’s about to go up against is really _that_ skilled.

The thing about the UFC is that it’s all for show, for the most part. None of the brutality between fighters lasts after the cameras stop rolling, and nobody’s ever actually _quite_ as angry as they’re paid to seem. It’s obvious with Collier, as he makes himself look ‘roided out and borderline insane, jumping around the ring and beating his wrapped fists on the cage to get a rise out of fans. He’s a true showman, good at faking the attitude, and Calum cracks a smile just watching him.

But then Clifford comes out. And as apparent as it is that Collier’s faking his rage, it’s just as obvious that Clifford _isn’t_ faking his.

The boy is tense, his eyes blank and empty whenever the camera catches them. He doesn’t talk to anyone, not even to his manager, who’s probably one of the youngest Calum’s ever seen in the position. All Clifford does is nod at whatever his manager is telling him before he stuffs a mouth guard over his teeth.

He’s calm going into the cage, eyes avoiding the cameras and looking nowhere but right at Collier. And even though this fight is recorded, and he’s nowhere near it, Calum can _feel_ the air shift inside that ring. Can see the exact moment that Collier realizes what he’s up against. The moment he realizes Clifford isn’t interested in the showmanship, he’s interested in the _win_. That Clifford isn’t a joke.

Clifford wins in blind rage. That’s the kicker. That’s what Calum learns by watching him fight.

He goes for tackles early. Rarely gets a hit landed on him before he’s throwing one back twice as hard, pinning his opponents to the ground so roughly it’s rare they’ll get back up, unless they tap out first. He’s _good_ , there’s no way Calum can just _deny_ that. The boy has a talent for the sport, he’s just not honing it in the right way. Calum wonders what the hell a kid his age has to be so fucking _angry_ about.

It takes several minutes of deep breathing and a well-deserved Vicodin for Calum to work up the courage, but once he’s got it, he's determined not to let it slip away, and he’s dialing Luke’s number with a fervor he didn’t know he had in him. His eyes are still glued to the laptop screen when Luke picks up, a soft murmured “Hullo?” coming through the speaker.

Calum watches as Collier taps out for the final time, as Clifford scrambles off and away from Collier’s body the second the referee blows his whistle. When Clifford’s hand is raised into the air a few minutes later, declaring him the victor, his eyes are just as empty and sad as they’d been before the match, and Calum’s just sort of staring into them, feeling the exact same way Clifford must, before he whispers to Luke down the line, “I’ll do it.”


	2. Two

It's the mornings that are the hardest.

It's in the mornings that it all comes to a head all at once, so sharp and painful that he can't move from his bed for several minutes. It's in the mornings that Calum nearly wishes he was dead, most days.

When he wakes up, he barely finds the strength to reach for his nightstand, using his good arm to fumble around for the bottle of Vicodin that he knows is sitting there. The movement still makes his bad shoulder burn, and Calum finds himself clenching his jaw and squinting his eyes as a means to get through it.

The cap to the bottle comes off messily, and a couple of the pills go flying. He curses through gritted teeth before he finds one that's landed relatively close by, lifting it to his mouth with shaking fingers before he chews it up to get it in his system quicker.

It's in the mornings that Calum spends at least half an hour in the shower, rotating his shoulder like his old physical therapist used to make him in hopes that he can heal the damage by himself before he inevitably gives up, the pain overwhelming him as he slumps against the shower wall and holds back tears of frustration. Mostly at himself, but also at whatever divine power could've possibly found it fair to make him face what he did on that night almost three years ago. To make him live like this ever since it happened.

It's in the mornings that Calum cuts himself off from the world. Because nobody's ever seen him like this—because he's never _let_ anybody see him like this.

Except for today. Because on this _particular_ morning, a week after that afternoon with Luke in the pub, Calum's about to let two complete strangers see him like this.

And that's the hardest thing he's had to face so far.

*******

The directions Luke had given him lead him to a gym in a far less densely populated area of Los Angeles. The building looks run down, grey in color with next to no windows. It doesn't even look like it would have any functioning utilities, but that's probably the point. The more inconspicuous the place seems, the less likely it is that it'll draw attention to outsiders.

He can see Luke's car parked around back, near the door. There's one other vehicle parked back there, but it doesn't look like one a UFC fighter or his manager would drive, so Calum guesses it must belong to Frangipane.

The smile that twitches at the corner of his lips is entirely involuntarily, just muscle memory at the thought of a woman he used to be quite fond of. He wonders if she'd hate him for how he hid himself away, for the way he cut everybody off, including the people he used to consider his friends. It's not really her style to hate, but Calum thinks he probably doesn't deserve anything less than it.

He parks next to Luke's car, turning his engine off and grabbing his duffel bag from the passenger seat. It makes his shoulder twinge, a dull reminder that he should probably take something before they start, since the pain will likely only grow to be unbearable within the next couple of hours.

The back door is heavy, and Calum has to really utilize his strength to pull it open wide enough to get himself through unscathed. He's expecting blinding fluorescent lights to greet him, but instead, the gym is filled with a soft glow, hardly bright enough to see much of anything. It works, though, gives the space an ambiance that immediately calms him.

That is, until he sees the cage.

It's in the middle of the room, standing tall and intimidating, looming over him like this is all just a big joke. There's a single light hanging above it that's brighter than the rest, illuminating the thing like the whole point is for Calum to see _only_ the ring. And it's working—Calum vaguely registers himself losing his grip on his bag as he stares at the cage, his heartbeat racing too quickly. He can hear it thrumming thick and heavy in his ears, can feel how his heart is pushing up against his ribcage. He's tense all over, jaw set and arms gone rigid.

In the back of his mind, he can hear the roar of a crowd, the buzzing of a clock. Can see the blurry outline of Poxleitner’s petite frame leaning over his head asking if he can hear her, the bright lights hanging above them turning her into an indistinguishable blob, and then, nothing. Pitch black.

"Hood!" He hears, and he forces himself to turn his head in the direction of the sound.

The sight of Frangipane with her vibrant blue hair thrown up into a messy bun settles him down, and he remembers suddenly how renowned she was for the crazy colored dye jobs, how she'd often take requests for her next color based on whoever won their fights. He briefly wonders who got to pick this particular one.

She doesn't look angry as she approaches him, and she surely doesn't look like she's incapable of forgiveness for the way he's treated her the past few years. Instead, she looks _happy_ , like coming home. Calum wants to feel that way, too. Maybe one day he will, once everything's all a little more okay.

Her arms are opened wide, an invitation, and Calum chuckles before dropping his bag on the floor and walking into them. She's smaller than him, by quite a bit, but somehow he still feels insignificant and childish in her arms. Maybe it's the way she always makes herself seem larger than she is, demanding respect. Or maybe it's the way that Calum feels small in comparison to almost _anything_ anymore.

"You didn't call me back, you asshole." She mumbles into his ear, and he gives her a watery laugh, not realizing there’re tears welling up in his eyes until it's too late. He pulls away before he can do something even more embarrassing, wiping his eyes and trying to play it off. She sees through it, because she's Ashley and she's known him for ages, but it's probably _because_ she's known him for ages that she pretends she doesn't notice it.

He doesn't know what to say to her words, so he just shrugs. It's his default when words fail him. Easier to just say he doesn't know when the real reasons hurt too much.

She doesn't get another chance to try and pull an answer from him, because then Luke's joining them, emerging out of what must be the locker room. Calum will have to take his duffel in there at some point to put all his things in a locker of his own.

They won't be doing any actual practice today, as per Luke's insistence to Clifford's manager. Calum knows it's because Luke doesn't want to make him face too much in one day, which is admirable, Calum guesses. Luke's a good guy, a good friend. His heart's in the right place, even if sometimes it feels like it's not.

"The manager called while you were gone," Ashley says, obviously to Luke, but her eyes barely flicker over to acknowledge the blond before they're back on Calum. "How sure are you about this?" She asks, and this time, her words are for Calum specifically.

Truthfully, Calum doesn't even _know_ how sure he is. Everything feels like too much too soon, even down to the familiar smell of metal and lingering sweat floating throughout the room. He's definitely not really _ready_ , and he's _so_ unsure, but he's already come this far. It feels childish to quit, at this point. Before anything’s even really _happened._

All he can do is shrug again, since he's unable to find his voice in a timely matter. Ashley looks saddened by that, but as if he can sense the awkwardness threatening to build, Luke speaks up. "What'd his manager say?"

Ashley angles her body away from Calum, a gesture that opens their conversation up so that Luke can join it, and he fills the space easily. "Just that they were a couple minutes out. Also said to be wary, because Clifford is _especially_ pissy today." She rolls her eyes, like that's something laughable, and Luke humors her by doing just that—laughing.

Calum finds himself irritated by it, for whatever reason that he chooses to ignore for the time being.

Luke turns to Calum next, nodding at him by means of getting his attention. "You doing alright, buddy? You’re looking pale."

He doesn't have to see himself to know that it's probably true. His palms feel clammy when he wipes the sweat from them off on his shorts, and swallowing is starting to feel like a chore. But he expected that this would be the case. Luke should've expected the same thing.

Before Calum can mumble some half assed response, Ashley is scoffing. "Shut up, Luke, he’s _nervous_. Quit drawing attention to it." She's glaring daggers into the side of the blond’s head, and Luke can probably feel it, since he simply rolls his eyes without even looking over at her. It successfully shuts him up, though, and Calum gives Ashley a look that he hopes comes across as a thank you. She simply winks back, acknowledging without being obvious about it.

The comfortable silence that's settled over them is disrupted by the loud squeaking of the back door opening, sunlight suddenly flooding the dusky room and making Calum squint. They all turn to face the source of the sound, and Calum fights the urge to hide behind his friends, as if that'll somehow make him invisible.

A man in a simple suit enters through the door first. He's freshly shaven, his honey colored hair soft and definitely not styled, but it's tousled in a way that still works. He looks something like a model, if Calum’s honest, and from this close up, Calum guesses the guy can't be too much older than Luke or himself.

Calum quickly recognizes him from the video he'd watched the week before—Clifford’s manager.

Behind the man in the suit is Michael himself, disheveled and thrown together in a way that doesn’t work for him as well as it does for his manager. He looks like Calum _feels_ —sloppy and utterly lost. His hair (red, if Calum remembers correctly from the videos) is hidden under a beanie, his face stubbly and rough like he hasn't bothered to shave in days. He's got baggy sweats on, along with a hoodie, and Calum can't help but think it makes him look almost comically small. Even though he's broader and maybe slightly taller than Calum himself, if only by an inch or so, the way Clifford has buried himself inside of his clothing makes him seem weaker, somehow.

Here, he doesn't look angry. Here, he looks _defeated_.

"Hey, hey, hey!" The manager booms, his voice far too boisterous and chipper for this early in the morning. Calum winces, and he swears he sees Clifford do the same thing. "Frangipane, think you could've picked a bigger shithole for this?"

Calum turns to gauge Ashley's reaction to the insult, but she only waves the man off with a big smile. They're friends, then, or something close to it, at least. "You're not paying me enough for glam, Irwin. Keep on dreaming."

Irwin laughs, a sound that's somehow even louder than his shouting. Calum's fingers itch to slide into his pocket to retrieve a pill.

"I'm afraid I've gotta save most of the cash for the talent." Irwin winks at her, before he stops in front of Calum. It's only then that he realizes how close the manager's gotten, his eyes flicking over Irwin's shoulder to see that Clifford is hanging back, walking amongst the gym equipment, exploring. When the manager clears his throat, Calum looks at him, sees he's sticking his hand out for Calum to shake. Nervously, he does so, and he reluctantly observes how meek his hold seems in relation to Irwin’s solid grip. "Ashton Irwin, but you can call me Ashton. The bum behind me is Michael. You can call him the biggest pain in my ass."

Calum swallows, and it hurts with how dry his throat has gone, but it does help him to speak more audibly. "Calum Hood."

Ashton smirks, squeezing Calum’s hand once more, tighter than the other times, before he drops it all at once. His eyes hold something like mischief, and Calum wants to ask him what that means, but somehow he's worried that it's not actually there. Worried that maybe he's looking for reasons to back out of this whole thing where there aren't any. "Good to meet you." Ashton turns his head and calls over his shoulder, "Michael, say hello!"

Calum finds himself perking up, embarrassingly eager to hear Clifford speak since the guy never did in any of the videos that Calum’s watched. He tries to ignore the way Ashley coughs, smothering a sound that probably would've been a laugh at his lack of subtlety. He especially ignores the way Luke anxiously looks at her as he tries to figure out why he’s not in on the joke. It makes sense that Luke would be nervous, though. He's the one that has to get in the ring with a notoriously brutal fighter.

Clifford looks up from the free weights, just a quick glance before he's hunching back over to resume whatever he'd been doing before. He doesn't say anything, though, just gives a half assed wave in their general direction.

"He doesn't talk much, does he?" Calum asks before he can stop himself, and he chews on his bottom lip before he looks at Ashton apologetically. "Sorry, that was rude. Forget it."

Ashton just looks amused, his expression smug. "Would you want to talk if you were in his boat?"

Calum thinks about that. He guesses not, what with all the scandal and controversy he's found online surrounding Clifford and his record. It's not as if  he hasn't _been_ in that boat before, but Ashton must not know about that. If he’d known, it's unlikely Calum would be in this situation in the first place, unlikely Ashton ever would’ve asked him to do this.

It's Luke that speaks next, even though Calum could've sworn he was gearing up to give Ashton an answer at some point. Then again, maybe Ashton wasn't actually waiting for one.

"What's his boat, exactly?" Luke asks, crossing his arms over his chest as he stares Ashton down.

Ashton shrugs, smoothing his hands over his jacket pockets. "It's becoming pretty obvious that nobody wants to support a guy that fights the way Michael does. He's under a lot of scrutiny for the nature of his record—they say he's too angry. And nobody's placing bets on fights anymore, because they just know he'll win. This is the league's way of changing that. Or trying to, at least."

Calum frowns. "It's about money?"

Ashton turns back to him then, his eyebrow quirked. "Isn't it always, in this damn business?"

"That's not what I mean." Calum bites. The fire in his shoulder is back, screaming at him to calm down, but he pushes through it. Or tries to. "I mean, he's taking on this huge fight just because people won't bet on him? Doesn't that defeat the whole purpose of the sport? What about integrity?"

Now, Calum's never really thought of himself as crazy. He feels it, sometimes, especially in these last few years, but he's never really looked at himself in the mirror and thought there was something _wrong_ with the way he rationalized things. With the way he saw the world.

But the way that Ashton throws his head back and laughs at Calum's words has him wondering if maybe what he's said _is_ insane. If what he said is so far off it's genuinely _funny_.

Ashton wipes at the corner of his eye while he winds down before he looks Calum straight on and says, "Kid, it's dudes beating the shit out of each other on live television. Integrity has no place in something like that."

Clifford has made his way over to the ring by now, which Calum can see over Luke's shoulder. He's tracing his hands along the cage, like he's learning it, and when Calum looks at him, watches him, he wonders if maybe Ashton’s right. If maybe the one thing he used to know was never actually what he thought it was. If maybe what happened to him that night was inevitable because of the way he thought. If maybe Clifford dominates the sport because he has _no_ remorse regarding his competitors after he's taken them down, like Calum always thought a fighter ought to.

"You've got a lot to learn if you're going to train someone like him." Ashton says more quietly, like it's a secret, reserved for Calum's ears only, and even though he knows Luke and Ashley can hear Ashton just as clear as he can, Calum still pretends they can't.

He feels his blood boiling, insulted down to his core at Ashton's words. There's no way Ashton could know about what he's been through and still have the guts to say something like that, he realizes, unless Ashton’s completely heartless, which doesn’t seem entirely likely. "You can't be his friend, Hood. He doesn't let anyone close enough for that. Hardly me, and _especially_ not you."

Calum thinks that's an odd thing for a manager to say, especially because Ashton and Clifford had seemed like they were somewhat close, their communication light and civil. But maybe that's just another thing Calum’s misread. It seems as though he's doing that a lot today.

"Well," Calum whispers, "it's a good thing I'm not interested in being friends."

And even to his own ears, it sounds hideously like a lie.

*******

Calum's apartment is dreadfully quiet when he gets home a few hours later.

They'd spent awhile in Ashley's office, working out practice schedules on the calendar and ensuring enough training sessions got crammed into the three months they have available to them before the big fight. Calum had been so anxious, sitting right across the table from Clifford yet being so blatantly ignored by him. He hadn't even had the energy to be offended about it, just accepted it and took the opportunity to look at those green eyes in person, even if they weren't looking back at him.

And truthfully, the camera had done no justice in respect to the anger and iciness buried within those eyes in person. Calum's heart had ached momentarily as he wondered what Clifford could possibly be carrying around on his young shoulders to visibly suck the life out of him like that.

Carelessly, Calum tosses his keys and duffel bag onto the table in the small foyer. He avoids looking into the mirror placed above said table, reminding himself for the millionth time that he should probably take it down. It serves no purpose if he never wants to see his reflection.

He stops in the living room on his way to the kitchen, pulling open one of the drawers on the entertainment center where he keeps several taped fights from years ago. He usually just picks a random one without reading labels, but today, feeling a rush of what he thinks might be inspiration, he hovers over one tape in particular. One that he keeps buried in the back, behind all the others.

**HOOD V. PHILIPPOU, JULY 2013**

Just the title alone makes Calum's stomach heave, and whatever bravery he'd miraculously felt goes flying out the window in record time. Quickly, he closes the drawer and continues through to the kitchen, deciding that maybe tonight he'll just go without TV.

In the peacefulness of his kitchen, Calum fumbles with stilling his shaky fingers long enough to bring a pill to his mouth before he presses 'Delete All' on his answering machine.

*******

"Get it together." Calum hisses, eyes locked in on his own via the mirror in the gym's locker room. His fingers are white-knuckling the side of the porcelain sink as he stares at himself, and he whispers the words again, leaning in closer to watch his lips move as he says them. Like maybe that'll make himself listen better.

Somewhere deep inside, he wants to cry. Wants to get all these feelings _out_ so they'll finally stop eating him alive, but he can't. At least not right _now_ , because Luke and Michael are just outside the doors, warming up for their first day of practice.

Ashley had sent him a good luck text that morning that he didn't end up responding to, but he still doesn't feel very lucky. In fact, he sort of feels like he's drowning, but it's too late to back out now. Regardless of his past, Calum's a man of his word, so he wouldn't have had the guts to pull out of this anyway. What happened to him changed a lot of things, but not the fact that he can't seem to ever break a promise.

When he finally realizes he can't put practice off any longer, Calum grabs a pill from his bottle, swallowing it dryly before he runs his fingers through his hair and tries to focus on his breathing.

When Calum comes out of the locker room, Michael and Luke are already in the cage. They're not fighting yet, though, just stretching and getting loose. Luke’s barely got a couple inches of width on Michael, and while Luke’s got a bit more height to him, Calum can still see the glimmer of intimidation on Luke's face every time the blond looks over at his opponent.

Luke's a great fighter. He always has been. But it's pretty much universally known that Clifford is _better_.

"Hey, there he is. The man of the hour!" Luke calls out, raising one wrapped hand to give him a salute. As a last ditch effort to find a valid way out of this, Calum looks to Ashley's office, but her lights are off and her door is latched shut, so she probably isn't here yet, and therefore of no help to him.

Calum shrugs, trying to force a smile to his face that probably just comes out looking like a slightly less obvious version his usual frown, judging by Luke's disappointed expression.

"Are we starting or what?" Michael asks, sounding annoyed, and Calum silently thanks the guy for rescuing him from a long and boring lecture about positivity from his best friend.

"Yeah," Calum says, sliding his hands into his jacket pockets. "You both have your stuff on? And listen, seriously, no bullshit. Just a clean spar, okay?"

Luke nods, getting in a couple more quick stretches before he takes to bouncing lightly on his feet. Calum's thankful for the lack of interrogation.

"Wait, wait, wait," Michael starts, a deep frown settling on his face. His eyebrows are drawn tight together, confused, and his frown lines are deeper than they should be on a twenty two year old. "Aren't you going to come in here?"

The first thought Calum has is that he officially hates Luke for not passing that knowledge along earlier, therefore forcing him into this awkward prolonged eye contact with Michael. The second thought Calum has is that he's pretty sure the walls around him are closing in, and suddenly the sharp burn in his shoulder is peeking up from under the cloud of painkillers.

He shouldn't have agreed to this. It's not worth the twenty grand.

Before either of them can speak, Luke clears his throat, readjusting the wrapping on his right fist. "Calum doesn't get in the ring. I'm the only person you fight." His voice is hard, nonnegotiable in nature, but Calum can see the spark of irritation in Michael’s eyes at being told what's what.

"What kind of coach doesn't get in the ring?" Michael snorts, _laughs_ , and Calum can practically _feel_ the blood in his veins heating up.

He can also see the steam threatening to shoot out of Luke's ears at the man’s words, can see the way he's flexing the fingers in his right hand, so Calum quickly snaps, "Round one," when he sees what a golden opportunity he's being presented with.

Luke smirks as soon as Calum says it, pulling his arm back before releasing his famous right hook. It lands on Michael’s jaw, hard enough to knock the boy to the ground, and Luke backs off the very second Michael hits the mat.

" _Fuck_ , man," Michael groans, cupping his jaw and looking up at Luke with fire in his eyes. Luke just shrugs, unfazed. "What the hell was that about?"

"Rule number one," Calum bellows, demanding Michael's attention back on him, "is that you never ask me anything about why I don't get in the cage." Maybe it's just in his head, but he swears Michael looks regretful, like he's suddenly remembered his place. "Rule number two, you don't ask me anything personal, _ever_. I'm not here to be your friend, just like you're not here to be mine. Now get up, it's time for the real round one."

Michael doesn't waste any more time, shooting to his feet and tilting his neck slightly to stretch it out.

When Calum signals the start of the round, Michael takes Luke to the ground in seconds.

*******

It's not an easy thing, standing that close to the cage for so long. But he manages, and by the end of the session, he feels a little less like he's going to break down just _looking_ at it. It helps that he's got Luke near him the whole time, and it got tremendously better when Ashley showed up halfway through, but it's never going to be effortless. He can tell it's always going to make him feel sick, even if only very faintly.

They call it quits after three hours, and Luke looks like he hasn't worked this hard in years. Maybe he hasn't—nobody he's ever fought or trained with has been at Michael’s level.

When they head to the locker room, Michael doesn't follow, just shouts an empty goodbye in the direction of Ashley's office before he leaves through the back door, still in all his gear and drenched in sweat.

The second he's gone, Luke's laughing, shaking his head in disbelief. "Holy shit, Cal, that kid's _wild_. Reminds me so much of—”

Calum tenses, spinning his head to send a glare in Luke's direction. Luke furrows his eyebrows for a second before he realizes what he was about to say, then chews lightly on his bottom lip.

"Sorry, I didn't—you know I wouldn't—"

"Why'd you make me take this job, huh? Are you _sure_ it's because Michael needs a coach like me?" Calum snaps coldly, turning away to unzip his duffel. "Because I'm starting to think maybe it's because you just want things to be like how they were before."

He hears Luke snort, and then the boy's in his direct line of sight, leaned up against the lockers and staring at Calum pointedly. "Of _course_ I want that, Cal. I want you to get back in there more than anything, ‘cause it _kills_ me to see you sitting outside that ring, constantly looking like you're about to pass out when I know how much it used to mean to you. But I _promise_ you, kid, that's not why I wanted you to take this gig. I wanted you to take it because you know a hell of a lot about fighting, and because you said it yourself—Michael needs somebody to remind him what it's supposed to be about in this sport."

Calum's still working on a good response to that when Luke ultimately gives up on waiting for one and instead opens his own locker, grabbing his gym bag before heading towards the showers. Eventually, the sound of running water starts echoing throughout the room, drowning out any other noise.

Sitting on top of Calum’s duffel bag is that damn prescription bottle, menacing and intimidating in a way it probably shouldn't be. His hand pleads to wrap around it, to grab one of the white pills within it to prevent the ache in his shoulder and throbbing in his head from reaching their full capacity, but he tells himself he doesn't need it, that he's bigger than that, and he buries the bottle beneath all his clothes, hidden at the bottom of the bag, but not forgotten.

Once he gets into his car, though, and he's completely alone without the loud distractor of the noise of the running shower, he remembers he's not as strong as he thinks he is.

When he swallows the Vicodin down, he leans back against his seat, tears welled up in his eyes, and _hates_ himself for it.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to leave a quick lil thank you to everyone who's already subscribed to this fic like omg??? We're only two chapters in and the response has been fucking incredible like I'm absolutely floored by y'all.
> 
> So, tumblr user starstuddedvevo made a _gorgeous_ edit for this fic that I have to share so like, go take a look at it [here](http://dafeedil.tumblr.com/post/151108145153/nothing-gives-easy-read-your-fic-and-got).
> 
> And ofc, the playlist for this work can be found on [Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/dafeedil13/playlist/3CZ8yOa8Cy7ZkxLDATWx67)!

The second week of practice comes too quickly for his liking. In fact, it feels like _minutes_ rather than _days_ that go by between the last time Calum sees Michael and the first session they have that following Monday.

As insisted by Ashton (who, according to Ashley, had sent her a rather lengthy email over the weekend regarding the very _real_ time constraint they're facing), the session for the first day of Week 2 is more technique based, a variation from all the light sparring and scrimmaging Michael and Luke have been doing up until this point to get the chemistry built up.

He's still standing outside the ring, as per usual, hands buried in the pocket of his hoodie and his face most likely shaded from the baseball cap he's got on. Inside the pocket, his fingers are brushing against each other as they twitch nervously, subconsciously, the limbs cold and clammy despite the increasing heat building up inside the room from all of Luke and Michael's movement.

Luke's got Michael pinned to the floor, though it probably won't be for long. He's leaving too much space in between their bodies, like he keeps doing, and for the seventh time in a row, Michael squeezes his arm between them and shoves Luke up and off of him, instantly rolling so that he's back on top, back in control.

And for the seventh time in a row, like clockwork, Calum feels his eyes rolling before he can help it, and he retrieves a hand from his pocket so that he can rub the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

"Stop, stop." Calum sighs, waving at them to get away from each other. Seemingly just as annoyed as Calum is, they oblige, taking their positions on opposite sides of the cage. "Luke, you can't—you keep doin' it wrong."

Luke scoffs, shrugging his shoulders before he bends an arm behind his back to stretch the muscles in it. "It's not exactly _easy_ , Cal."

"What are you talking about?" Calum blurts, motioning to the ring desperately. "It's one of the first moves you ever learned!"

Although nobody's prompted him to say anything, and _definitely_ hasn't invited him into the conversation, Michael suddenly asks, "Well, if he isn't doing it right, maybe you can just come and take over?"

Calum feels the question scraping along his bones before Michael's even finished asking it, burying itself deep under his skin so that Calum can allow it to eat away at him for days after this moment. The words bother him in a way he knows they probably shouldn't, but still, he lets them.

"No." He says, instantly, and he purposely ignores the way that Luke's body sags a little in disappointment. Like maybe Luke was hoping the answer might've been anything else. "Try it again. You just have to make sure you're shifting your hips better, Luke. You've almost got it."

To his own ears, he sounds distant, and likely it's because of the fact he can't even bring himself to look at the way Michael's face falls at Calum's quick rejection. Deep down, he wishes he could tell the boy that it's not personal, at least not in the standard way. That Calum's issue isn't with _Michael_ , necessarily, but instead with _himself_.

He expects Luke to let Calum's bitter words roll over his body like he always does. Expects the blond to just shrug and tighten the wrapping on his fists before he squares up and tells Michael to get ready to go again.

Instead, though, Luke sighs and says softly, "Take five, Michael, yeah?" 

Without much of a response, save for his quizzical look in Calum's direction, Michael nods, reaching for one of the towels draped over the fence of the cage as he exits the ring. Calum watches as the redhead walks over towards his duffel bag on the other side of the gym, wiping sweat off his forehead as he goes, and Calum wonders just what the fuck his body is thinking when the sight makes his heart thump a little harder.

The metallic clank of the cage door draws Calum back to reality, and when he looks in the direction of the noise, he sees Luke taking a swig from his water bottle as he walks over to where Calum's standing rigidly.

"Want to talk here or somewhere else?" Luke asks, but the directness in the way he says it reminds Calum that there's no way he's escaping this conversation. Ashley isn't at the gym today, so she won't unexpectedly call Calum into her office to bail him out, and even Michael is unable to rescue him, instead immersed in whatever text conversation is happening on his cell phone.

"I don't want him to hear." Calum replies weakly, cursing his voice for sounding so small. Out of the corner of his eye, Calum sees Michael moving slightly, like maybe he's stretching or putting his phone back in his bag. It's obvious that he's too far away to hear them, anyway, because if he _could_ , it's likely he would've made it clear by now, but still, Calum mentions it.

Luke just smiles solemnly, motioning with a nod of his head the direction in which he wants Calum to accompany him. And Calum just goes, burying himself further in his jacket as he follows his best friend towards the punching bags in the far corner of the gym. 

"You've got to get back out there somehow, Calum. You _have_ to knock this off." Luke starts, before Calum's even stopped walking. "The kid only wants to get better. How can he do that if he thinks you hate him?"

Calum rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well. It's not like he's desperate to be my friend, either."

Luke makes a noise of annoyance, a little half-whine half-grumble that never fails to remind Calum of an actual child. Luke's always been something of a kid trapped in a 26 year old's body.

"Cal, that's the exact opposite of my point, and you know it." Luke reprimands, his fingers clenching and unclenching like he wishes he could just lay one on Calum for his attitude. Probably he deserves it. Undoubtedly, though, Luke won't go through with it. "You know this move better than anyone else, _especially_ me, so when are you gonna stop your moping and go do your job?"

Calum bites his tongue so hard he thinks he might taste blood, holding back the nasty way he wants to snap at Luke that he _never_ agreed to doing this by _himself_. That he agreed to this gig on the sole condition that _Luke_ was the only one who dealt with the physical contact.

Across the gym, Michael gets to his feet, unwrapping the cloth from around his hands. He holds the material with his teeth as he goes, keeping it tight and secure so he can rewrap his fists after he lets the skin breathe for a few seconds. The heavy sigh to Calum's left must come from Luke, must mean he's seen the pathetic way Calum's searching for an out. But he doesn't seem to have the guts to say anything about it, so Calum just takes one of the pills from the bottle in his pocket, biting down on it pointedly when Luke's mouth settles into a saddened frown. 

It feels like a small victory, for now, watching Luke's face being overtaken with an expression of annoyance before Calum slides the bottle back into his pocket and starts walking over to where Michael's now sitting back down on the bench without looking back. Judging by the sound of a door slamming, Calum guesses Luke's angrily made his way into the locker room and that they're now alone, so he doesn't bother being quiet as he approaches Michael.

If he's honest, he's not exactly sure what he'd intended to say when he walked over this way. Mostly he'd done it to drive his point home with Luke, had done it as a powerful follow up to that argument. But now that he's here, and now that Michael's turning his head to give him a quick once over, Calum feels his confidence dropping rapidly, his throat closing up just a little bit.

But most of all, he's not expecting Michael to ask, “Are you scared, or something? Is that why you won't get in the cage?"

The tiny ball of rage in Calum's stomach flickers marginally, heating his blood and making his skin feel hot all over. 

"I thought I told you not to ask me personal questions." Calum sneers back, his jaw tensed as he forces himself to stare Michael down. 

Michael scoffs, redirecting his attention back down to his hands that he's still in the process of wrapping. "Yeah, well, I find it difficult to take orders from someone who won't even fight me like a grown man." There's a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips—he's clearly proud of himself. 

"Look." Calum deadpans. He leans down, squeezing hard over the athletic tape Michael's using to wrap his hands so that the red haired boy is forced to pay attention to him. When Michael looks up, annoyed, fiery green meets murky brown, and Calum feels set ablaze under the heat of Michael's gaze. "I don't care what you think of me. I really don't. But Irwin sent you to me because you need to learn how to control yourself so you don't eat shit in the Middleweights and lose your whole following. Are you hearing me?"

Michael rolls his eyes, but doesn't say anything, so Calum repeats the question, only louder this time. It apparently irks Michael enough for him to roll his eyes and mumble out a “Yeah, whatever,” but the nonchalance just feels like a weak slap to the face. Calum's so _sick_ of being brushed off.

Calum releases the tape, shoving Michael's hands away from him like they've personally offended him in some way. "Obviously you've got some issues. Something makes you act like you'd rather _kill_ than win—" 

He knows he's struck a chord when Michael's eyes dart back up to him, glowing bright with anger, like he's _daring_ Calum to elaborate on that statement. "Don't talk about what you don't know about." Michael spits, and yeah, Calum may be angry, but he can still take a hint. He still knows when not to cross the line. 

"—but that's not what this sport is about." Calum continues, sidestepping the clearly sensitive subject. "So either you switch this attitude of yours around, or I'm done. I don't give a _shit_ if you win that match or not, because I'm getting paid either way." He pauses for a moment, before he adds: "What matters is if _you_ want to win it, Clifford."

Michael doesn't say anything for several beats, just picks at the loose tape on his hands before he starts nodding slowly. Without a comment on what Calum's said, Michael stands, stretching out his arms as he reaches for his practice gloves and mouth guard. He starts for the cage—which Calum will have to call Luke back over to in a bit so they can continue with practice—rolling his shoulders to loosen them up.

Just before Michael opens the cage door and puts in his mouth guard, he turns to glance at Calum over his pale shoulder. "You know, I could focus better if you'd stop nagging me all the time." He teases, and Calum can't help but twitch a smile.

He turns away to hide the expression before Michael can see it.

*******

The gym used to be his happy place. Calum used to be able to find complete solace and balance there. He remembers countless hours spent there in the early mornings, sometimes with Luke but most times without, just losing track of time and getting lost in it, fully immersed in his own little world.

The gym doesn't give him that kind of pleasant feeling so much anymore. Before this gig, he hadn’t been to one in years, and it feels like a chore every time he's had to get out of bed early in the morning to come down here for the last couple of weeks.

He's lucky he has Luke. He recognizes that. Without Luke, he wouldn't even be able to manage this much, probably. He'd still be spending his mornings lying in bed wondering how he can pass the hours between then and the time he goes to sleep, only to do it all over again the next day. A miserable existence, really, but only slightly more miserable than the way Calum spends his mornings _now_.

The gym is anything but peaceful this morning, though, with the loud music blaring over the speakers at 8 AM while Michael and Luke are practicing in the cage. Calum's still seated outside of it, as always, with his hood pulled over his head and his hands buried in his pockets as he watches the pair work in silence. He's biting his tongue on critiques, desperately trying to wait to let them finish the round before he briefs them on what they did wrong.

Michael's technique is frustratingly flawless as always. Calum's trying not to think about it too much.

Ashley got in about half an hour ago, with her wildly vivid hair pulled up in a professional ponytail that looked somewhat out of place due to the vibrant cyan color of the locks. She's been buried in phone calls and paperwork in her office since the very minute she walked through the door, though, so Calum hasn't gotten a chance to say much of anything to her aside from the friendly wave he used to greet her.

His stopwatch has just beeped to inform him that the pair has been going for about five minutes when the heavy metal door that leads in from the back parking lot screeches open. It doesn't distract Michael or Luke, who're way too invested in trying to take one another out to notice, but Calum's head immediately swivels in the direction of the sound, curious as to who else would possibly be coming to join them right now. Nobody's supposed to know they're even _in_ here.

He relaxes only slightly when the figure that's just entered the gym comes closer. Calum recognizes him as Michael's manager, looking grossly out of place here in his button down shirt, slacks, and dress shoes that even _sound_ expensive as they make contact with the concrete flooring.

Ashton doesn't return Calum's tense smile, just nods at him by way of greeting before he sidles up beside Calum, arms crossed over his chest as his eyes scan over the cage. He's watching Michael closely, with an intensity that's almost unsettling. Calum supposes both Michael and Ashton himself have a lot to lose if Michael fails in the upcoming weeks, though, so it makes sense that Ashton seems so on edge.

He's not expecting a conversation, but then Ashton casually asks, "So, you're not the one who scrimmages him?"

"No," Calum says after a startled pause, looking at Ashton briefly before he quickly turns back to the cage, forcing himself to pay attention to that instead. "Luke's the one that's still in the league. Better shape or whatever. That's why he does the one on ones instead." 

It sounds like such a lame excuse, and Ashton apparently thinks so, too, since he snorts loudly. "You’re sure it doesn't have anything to do with what happened back in 2013?"

Calum _wants_ to say he's surprised, he really does. But he _isn't_. He should've known it was too good to be true—that there was no way he'd ever get off so easily. 

He knows that what happened three years ago isn't, like, a _secret_. Plenty of people know about it, especially in the circles that he and Ashton both run in (or used to run in, in Calum's case). But still, it sucks to talk about it. Calum hates talking about it.

Despite that he's not surprised, his breathing still stalls and his heart feels like it skips too many beats to be healthy or normal when Ashton asks the question. He can feel his fists clenching in the pocket of his sweatshirt, and his jaw is so tense it actually hurts to unlock it so that he can manage speaking. 

His shoulder _burns_.

"I should've figured you'd know about that." Calum says lowly. He can't look at Ashton directly, he _can’t_ , so he keeps his eyes on Michael instead, on how easily he dodges Luke's punches before counteracting with his own. "Have you told Michael?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ashton shake his head. "He doesn't need to know. The guy's got enough distractions as it is. I don't need him losing sleep over it."

At those words, Calum's blood boils, offended, and he has to dig the blunt edge of his nails into his palm to keep himself from saying or doing something completely stupid. 

"S'good to know that what happened to me would only equate to a couple of restless nights for him. I wouldn't have wanted it to, like, change your guys' opinion of me or anything." He spits out, making sure his tone is _dripping_ with the annoyance he feels.

Ashton lets it bounce right off of him, and Calum only briefly envies the man's ability to take hostility in stride like that. He supposes that when you're in charge of the public image of someone like Michael, you've got to learn to adapt like that.

"Do you think I'm making fun of you?" Ashton asks genuinely. His voice isn't exactly soft, but the underlying tone that Calum picks up in it _is_ , and Calum sighs, feeling almost guilty for being so harsh. "Do you really think I would have asked you to train my best fighter if I thought so _little_ of you?"

It's a good point. It makes sense, and Calum knows it does. Ashton's not a bad person, Calum doesn't think, he's just a guy that's trying to do right by everyone in a messy situation, and Calum wishes he wasn't so quick to judge all the time. It's just that it's so _hard_ for him to trust anyone in this business anymore.

"No." Calum mumbles. "I guess not."

Ashton nudges Calum's bicep with his elbow, encouraging the boy to look over at him. Calum obliges somewhat reluctantly, but he finds surprising comfort and friendliness in the easy smile Ashton offers him as soon as their eyes meet. "You were one of the greats, you know that? I would've given my left arm to manage you if Poxleitner hadn't gotten to you first."

At the mention of Poxleitner, Calum can't help but smile, and he knows without even being told or seeing it for himself that it actually touches his eyes. It's been too many years since he's spoken to her. He wonders if she'd forgive him for his distance as easily as Ashley had.

Much more lowly, Ashton says, "Hood, what happened in that fight wasn't your fault. I would've hoped that after three years, you'd know that."

Calum's heard it so many times. He's been told more times than he can count that it wasn't his fault, that there was nothing he could do to prevent it. That there was nothing _anybody_ could do, because nobody saw it coming.

But the words still light a fire in his veins and underneath his skin, settling in and growing increasingly uncomfortable. He's sick of being reassured, of being told that what happened in 2013 was by no fault of his own. He's sick and tired and he _knows_ it's true, but that's not the problem. The problem is that he can't get passed it, because nobody will _let it go_.

Stubbornly, Calum doesn't answer, even though Ashton looks like he thought Calum might have had something to add for a moment. When Calum stays silent, Ashton sighs and shrugs, turning his head to glance at his fighter, who's successfully got Luke pinned in a hold beneath him that Calum knows the blond won’t be getting out of.

With a saddened expression, Ashton says, "I just want him ready to go in ten weeks. I'm counting on you to make sure he stands a chance in that fight."

Calum chuckles humorlessly. "You know, he wins his professional matches every time. And in here, he beats _Luke_ every time. I think he's already more prepared to win that fight than you're ready to admit, Irwin."

Ashton visibly bites his tongue, before he exhales something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. "You think he's fucking invincible, or something?" He snaps. "Trust me, Hood, you don't know anything."

He's never heard Ashton with so much bite to his words before, and he's actually stunned into a silence. It feels like the equivalent of having his tail tucked between his legs, and he almost cowers back, as if he couldn't take Ashton out in one single move if he truly wanted to.

Without another word to Calum, Ashton starts back towards the same door that he came in. Calum just watches him go, wondering silently what exactly it is that he supposedly doesn't know.

Just before Ashton’s out of earshot of the cage, he looks over his shoulder and calls out, "Hey, Mike, how's your mom?"

Calum's eyes immediately dart inside the cage, where Michael falters the hardest Calum's ever seen him. The boy loses his footing and grip quickly, noticeably rattled by the unexpected words his manager has flung at him, and Calum's even _more_ surprised when Luke flips them and has Michael pinned to the mat in seconds.

Flabbergasted, Calum's jaw drops slightly, and he looks to Ashton for an explanation, but the man only smirks and shrugs his shoulders in what feels like the equivalent of an _I told you so_ , even though Calum's not sure what exactly Ashton's words are supposed to be proving to him.

With a grunt, Michael shoves Luke up and off of him, shooting to his feet and breathing so hard Calum's briefly concerned that he might pass out or something. Calum meets Luke's eyes through the fence of the cage, but the blond only shakes his head and shrugs, clearly just as confused by the whole exchange as Calum is.

"She's fine." Michael practically growls back. "Shut the fuck up."

Ashton doesn't take offense, just gives a little two finger salute in the fighter’s direction before he finishes his walk to the back door and exits the building.

It's silent for too many moments after the heavy metal door slams shut behind Ashton, save for the sound of the music that's still pumping through the speakers. Calum thinks he sees Ashley peeking out of her office window even though she's still on the phone, somehow detecting the drama in that way she always did have a knack for.

Warily, Calum watches Michael, takes in the way the boy's body stands so tense and alert, like he's about to implode if he so much as moves an inch. His breath is coming in angry pants, and Luke stands back, giving the guy some space as he recognizes the obvious rage building up and swirling around inside him.

None of them says anything for several beats, too scared to walk on such scarily thin ice, but eventually Michael clears his throat and shakes his head like he's clearing his mind, too.

"We're done for today." Michael decides, his voice and eyes equally blank while he starts working on unwrapping his hands before he shoves open the cage door and bounds down the steps. Calum keeps on watching him, ready to deal with any of the potential collateral damage if the guy _actually_ happens to spontaneously combust, or something. 

Nothing of the sort happens, though, and Michael just works on aggressively shoving all of his gear into his duffel bag before he starts towards the exit without so much as a goodbye or a glance back. Not that he ever _usually_ gives one, but today that fact feels especially obvious.

Calum feels stuck, feet glued to their spots on the concrete floor as he feels increasingly detached from his body. He doesn't have any words, can't find or form them, but he isn't totally sure what there really is left to say, anyway. He doesn't know enough about the context behind what's just happened to say a damn thing.

Suddenly, Luke bursts through the quiet and asks, "So, uh. Do you want to join me in here, or something? Just a couple easy warm ups, I promise. Nothing intense."

Without looking, Calum knows that Luke is still standing inside the cage. And even though he feels a little bit separated from reality and is still a _lot_ confused about Michael's behavior from just minutes ago, he actually has the phantom sensation of his feet trying to carry him towards the ring and up the stairs. Like it’s muscle memory.

In reality, he stays right where he's at, unable to muster the courage to join his best friend in the cage. He feels sick just imagining taking that first step.

Calum shakes his head, taking a couple of steps backwards. "Clifford said we're done." He says softly, wincing when his shoulder throbs insistently. He needs to get a pill in him—it's been hours since the last one, no wonder his shoulder is acting up.

Luke manages to look both disappointed and sympathetic all at once, and Calum wishes he had the guts to punch the expression off his face. Probably he wouldn't go through with it even if he _could_ physically manage it, because even though Luke is frustratingly annoying and persistent, the fucker is also Calum's best friend of many years. He can't just punch the judgment off of the face of someone who means that much to him.

"I've gotta get home." Calum spits out right as he sees Luke open his mouth to counter him. It's a total lie, and they both know it. There's absolutely _nothing_ for Calum at home aside from a video that he refuses to watch and an answering machine full of hundreds of deleted, unheard messages.

But because he must know when a battle is lost, Luke just lets it slide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, come say hi on [tumblr](http://dafeedil.tumblr.com/) xx


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended to post this yesterday but time got away from me (laaaame).
> 
> I know I said this in the notes for the last chapter but y'all should really check out this [super sweet fic edit](http://dafeedil.tumblr.com/post/151108145153/nothing-gives-easy-read-your-fic-and-got) made by tumblr user starstuddedvevo. Alternatively, you should give the [post for this fic](http://dafeedil.tumblr.com/post/150454520558/nothing-gives-easy-michael-clifford-is-the-newest) on my tumblr a lil reblog. Just sayin.
> 
> Also don't forget about the super sweet [playlist](https://play.spotify.com/user/dafeedil13/playlist/3CZ8yOa8Cy7ZkxLDATWx67) for this work on Spotify!
> 
> Now that I'm done shamelessly self promoting lmao go ahead and enjoy this chapter (or don't. Up to you).

The next week, Calum wakes up in a cold sweat. It's nothing unusual for him—although the sweltering fever dreams he gets are definitely a _lot_ more common than the ones that make him shiver awake. 

He can't distinctly remember every little piece of the nightmare that put him like this. He never really _can_ , but he supposes he likes it better that way, anyways. If he can't remember the details, it's easier to pretend he doesn't know exactly what his nightmares were really about. 

(It's total bullshit, of course. The nightmares are always the same.) 

It's dark and empty in his bedroom, just like always, but today, it feels more impending, somehow. Gloomy. He keeps himself buried in the comfort of his protective cocoon of sheets for as long as he can possibly stand it, until the ache in his shoulder rises to the surface and slaps him across the face with the reminder of reality. 

There's only ever so much allotted _peace._

He reaches blindly for the nightstand, feeling around for the familiar shape before he successfully latches onto one of the painkillers and gently pops it into his mouth. His current prescription is running low—he’ll probably have to refill it before the week is up. 

After he's lied in bed for another quarter of an hour and realizes he can't hide away for the rest of eternity, he rolls out of bed and stretches weakly, whimpering when the movement causes his shoulder to scream in protest. He limps all the way to the bathroom, massaging at the damaged muscles and joints while he turns on the shower and strips of his clothes. While he waits for the water to heat up, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, sighing audibly when he notices that he looks just as shitty as he's feeling. 

 _It's just another day,_ he reminds himself. Poxleitner had tried her very best to ingrain those words into him for the brief period of time that he allowed her to stay in his life after what happened, but he'd always resisted her. Sometimes he wishes that he hadn't. 

_It's just one day at a time._

*******

Calum appears to be the first one at the gym when he arrives, already a minute or two late himself. He would be able to understand tardiness from Ashley, who doesn't really _need_ to show up to the practices, but always does anyway. He'd even expect it from Luke, who tends to stroll in five minutes after practice is scheduled to start with excuses of traffic or a faulty alarm clock. 

He _doesn't_ expect it from Michael. The guy's always been early, it seems, already in the cage and working up a considerable sweat by the time Calum gets to the gym. Ashton seems like the kind of manager who demands promptness from his fighters, and Michael's never given Calum any reason to assume he'd be any different. Sure, the guy's known for being a bit of an asshole—but if nothing else, he's an asshole who's _always_ on time. 

Calum frowns, flicking on a couple of lights switches until he's successfully able to make the fluorescent bulbs whir to life above the cage. It takes them several seconds to reach their full potential, and Calum feels an odd sense of comfort and reassurance in watching them steadily brighten up.

When he remembers that he has a job to do, he makes for the locker rooms. He takes advantage of being the first one there by taking his sweet time changing out, despite that he doesn't really need to. He spends awhile in front of the mirror, whispering a pep talk to himself under his breath before he splashes cold water on his face to force himself further awake, and that's when he hears the clank of the metal back door opening and shutting from the main room.

After shoving his prescription bottle into the back of his locker so that he won't be tempted by it, Calum heads out of the locker room. The gym is fully illuminated now that the generator has warmed up, and he notices Michael setting his stuff down on his usual bench.

“Hey.” Calum calls, quirking an eyebrow when Michael jumps nearly a foot in the air as a result. “Everything okay?”

Michael clears his throat, nodding quickly. He turns his attention back to his gym bag as fast as possible, and Calum frowns when he’s faced with nothing but Michael’s back again.

“You can talk to me, if you want.” Calum offers, and then immediately bites down on his tongue afterwards. He doesn't know why he bothered with a nicety like that—Michael doesn't even _like_ him.

Instead of simply saying _no_ , Michael shakes his head and mutters, “I don't want to talk to you.”

It shouldn't bother Calum, or sting the way that it so blatantly does, but Calum finds himself taking a step back like Michael’s words have _physically_ wounded him. And maybe they have, because he feels an acute pressure on his chest afterwards that aches a whole lot like rejection.

Calum shakes it off, heading for the drinking fountain a few feet past where Michael’s currently getting all his gear out of his bag. He makes a point of avoiding eye contact as he walks by, but Calum stops dead in his tracks when he gets a whiff of the distinct smell of lingering alcohol.

He pivots quickly, and he can tell Michael knows he’s been caught when the boy goes all rigid and holds his breath like that’ll make the all too detectable scent disappear, or make Calum forget that he's just smelled it.

“Are you—are you _drunk_ right now?” Calum asks, and Michael simply scoffs.

“Not drunk,” Michael says, reaching for his wrap and tape. “Just very, _very_ hungover.” He tacks on a little laugh at the end, like he gets actual pleasure out of driving Calum up the wall, and Calum resists the urge to hit something.

Calum sighs, closing his eyes and digging the heel of his palm into one of the lids until it hurts just a bit. It's infuriating, that Michael has the guts to show up to practice all inebriated like this, acting like he doesn't even care about what that might suggest about him. He wonders if Ashton knows that Michael acts this way. Probably Ashton _has_ to know, if they've been a team for nearly a year.

“We _just_ talked about this.” Calum says. “Like, literally a week ago. You have to _care,_ Michael. You have to _care_ about this!”

Michael just rolls his eyes, turning further to his left so that his back is fully to Calum once again. It stings like a slap to the face, and Calum feels his skin heating up in his frustration at the blatant disrespect.

“Showing up to practice after a night of _partying_ isn't the way to prove to the officials that you have what it takes. You get that, right? They'd laugh their _asses_ off if they knew you acted like this. They'd laugh you right out of your fucking contract, Clifford.”

The boy tenses, and Calum swallows dryly watching Michael’s muscles twitch under his pale skin. He turns to glance at Calum over his shoulder, and Calum sighs again at the sight of Michael’s red, baggy-with-lack-of-sleep eyes and five o’clock shadow. He looks like a mess—Calum can only imagine how he _feels_.

Instead of apologizing like Calum half expects him to, Michael says, “I wasn’t out partying. The officials can go fuck themselves.”

Calum wants to scream at him. _God_ , does he want to yell at Michael until his head _explodes_ from all the effort he’s putting into it. But he can't, because Michael would just walk right out of here, and he’d probably take all promises of that twenty grand right with him as he did.

“You're such a prick.” Calum says, turning back and continuing back on towards the drinking fountain. “I don't know how the hell nobody’s fired you yet.”

He's expecting it to end there, but Michael’s suddenly facing him again, full frontal this time, and that fire from the videos is burning deep in his green eyes. It's more intense in person than it had ever seemed on camera, and Calum tries not to let the fact that it actually _intimidates_ him show.

“Oh, _I’m_ the prick? For having a life and real problems, _I’m_ the asshole?” Michael spits.

Calum rolls his eyes. “What problems could you possibly have, Clifford? Are you just _too_ successful? Are you _too_ fucking good at your job?”

Calum imagines if it were possible, there would be actual smoke barreling out of Michael’s ears right about now. He's hit the red haired boy deep this time, and Calum will admit, the accomplishment feels _good_.

The feeling hardly lasts for more than a second, though, before Michael’s losing what little control he must have been clinging on to. One moment, Calum’s fighting back a triumphant smirk, and the next, Michael’s slamming his fist into the top of the water fountain, just inches away from Calum’s head.

He doesn't have time to wonder if maybe Michael had been aiming for Calum himself, before he’s cringing, cowering down away from the sound. He feels himself shaking, and it's only then that he realizes his legs are giving out, knees wobbling as he starts sinking down to the floor.

He wasn't hit, he doesn't think. Michael didn't _hit_ him. But right now, it feels like Michael may as well have hit him a thousand times over.

He thinks he hears Michael saying his name, but it sounds distant, like it’s miles away. His vision is so blurred; he can hardly see Michael in front of him, can barely make out the boy’s body slowly following him down to the floor.

“Hood, hey. Fuck, are you okay?” Michael says, voice loud and clear and steady. Calum does his best to focus on it, but it keeps getting quieter, drowned out by the memory of the sound of the roaring crowd from that night.

They’d all been screaming so loudly after it happened, some in horror and others in some kind of bizarre fan loyalty. Calum can't remember seeing much of anything besides the fluorescent lights above him and the outline of what had to be paramedics as he lay on the floor of the cage. His shoulder had been screaming at him with a voice entirely its own, louder than anyone in the stands, and Calum remembers thinking in that moment that he’d probably never be able to move it again. He remembers Poxleitner’s soft, worried voice, yelling at the press to step away from the outside of the ring, and then at the refs to get Philippou out of the building before he lost it again.

“Hood!” Michael calls out again, and Calum squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head. “Okay, alright.” Michael says, dramatically softer this time. He sounds _gentle_. “Calum, can you look at me?”

Calum opens his eyes, and he sees Michael kneeling right in front of him, but keeping his distance. The pale boy smiles softly when he sees he’s got Calum’s attention, and he nods encouragingly. “There we go.”

“I can't breathe.” Calum whispers, clutching at his chest.

Michael hums, leaning in just a fraction. “I know. I'll help you, yeah? Watch me.” And Calum does, his eyes glued to Michael’s as the boy inhales and exhales slowly, softly, until Calum is able to manage the same thing without gasping or shaking.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, with _Michael_ of all people helping him to just _breathe_ , but it has to be several minutes, easily. He feels so small and childish and _ridiculous_ after he's come back to himself, casting his eyes down at his shoes and wrapping his arms around his legs like maybe Michael won't be able to see him so easily if he does so.

“Sorry.” Calum mumbles. “That was, um. Fuck. Embarrassing.”

Michael shakes his head, moving slowly while he shifts around to sit next to Calum against the wall, probably so as not to startle him. It feels extra insulting, even though Calum’s pretty sure Michael doesn't mean for it to seem that way.

“ _I’m_ sorry. You shouldn't be embarrassed.”

Calum scoffs. “Having some sort of breakdown in front of a perfect stranger is pretty damn embarrassing.”

Michael cracks a smile, and even though it only lasts for a fraction of a second, Calum swears he feels his body relax a bit just to have even seen it grace the boy’s face.

“It could’ve happened to anyone. You're only human, y’know?” Michael says, shrugging. “I actually am sorry, though. I shouldn't have lost it like that. I didn't know you were, um.” He motions to Calum with a wave of his hand, before dropping it back to his lap like he’s gone lifeless. “I didn't know.”

Calum coughs, nodding. He figures it goes without saying that he won't be sticking around for practice today, but he’s finding it difficult to stand up and gather up his things so that he can actually head home to sleep all of this off.

The thing is, he’s pretty certain that having Michael sitting so closely beside him and the calm that comes from listening to the boy as he breathes so steadily are the only things that’re holding Calum together right now. And he's not sure whether that makes him feel better, or a whole lot _worse_.

*******

The thing about having nine weeks remaining until potentially the largest fight of someone else’s career is that there's _only_ nine weeks remaining until the fight that can change someone's entire career. That's a whole lot of days to train, but it's also a whole lot of days in which Calum could lose his composure.

He’s done his best not to show any hint of emotion when he's around Michael ever since the fiasco from a week ago, but he can't help noticing the way that Michael’s eyes soften just a little whenever Calum catches them, like Michael’s trying to let Calum know that he's there for him. Which is slightly infuriating, because it makes Calum seem _weak_ , which, he kind of _is_ , but he doesn't need _Michael_ thinking that. No matter _what_ Michael’s witnessed.

What's been really nice about the days that have passed since Calum’s horrifying breakdown, however, is that Michael hasn't been late even _once_. He's back to arriving to the gym before everyone else on most days, stretching or getting a few early hits on one of the punching bags like he used to.

Calum doesn't think Michael’s had a drop of anything since the day of their fight. He can see it in the boy’s newfound focus.

When Calum walks into the gym in the morning, his usual duffel bag slung over his good shoulder like always, he easily catches sight of the familiar red hair. Michael’s back is to Calum, his body hunched slightly as he talks to someone that Calum quickly recognizes as Ashley. Her arms are crossed, her stance rigid, and Calum can only imagine what kind of lecture she's dishing out. Whatever it is, though, Michael doesn't seem too fazed by it. He never really does.

Instead of interrupting the pair with any kind of greeting, Calum just heads straight for the locker room. And if he feels a pair of heavy emerald eyes watching him as he goes, well. He tries his hardest to ignore it.

*******

When Ashton charges in through the gym’s back door a half an hour after practice has ended, Calum can already tell he isn’t in the mood for his usual conversation. The man’s dressed up in one of the nicest suits that Calum’s ever seen him in, and the hand that’s not clenched around a thick envelope is running through his golden hair like a nervous tick.

Calum’s starting to realize this is a lot of what Ashton’s about—high stress levels and an obvious aura of importance.

Calum hardly even has a chance to open his mouth before Ashton has caught sight of him seated on one of the practice benches, and in the next moment Ashton is rushing over to him with the unmistakable expression of a man on a mission.

“Where is he?” Ashton asks, his tone uncharacteristically harsh and rigid. “Where’s my fighter?”

Calum frowns, picking at the watch on his left wrist. “Practice ended thirty minutes ago?” Calum offers, though it sounds more like a question than a response. To be fair, though, Calum _knows_ Ashley didn’t mess up the times on the practice schedule that Ashton had requested she send him for his own calendar. He’s pretty sure Ashton _knows_ when practice ends, that Ashton probably _always_ knows where Michael is before anyone else on the planet does.

Except for now, apparently.

“Please don’t be an ass.” Ashton sighs, shaking his head and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Damn it, I’m sorry. Just. I have something for him.” He waves the envelope around vaguely, like that’ll help Calum understand the severity of the situation somehow.

“Well, um, after practice he said he was going home, so.” Calum says, but Ashton only rolls his eyes, so Calum guesses he isn’t being very helpful.

“No can do. I’ve got two meetings that I’m already running late for. I promised him he’d have this by today.” Ashton explains. When he realizes what Ashton’s getting at, Calum’s throat is already building up a forceful _hell, no_ , but unfortunately, Ashton’s just a bit quicker at getting words out than he is. “Look, Hood, I’ll give you a little something extra in your paycheck if you run this over to his place, okay? It’s just one little favor. No harm, no foul.”

Calum’s eyes go wide when Ashton hands him the envelope, bulging with what Calum can only assume to be cash. Ashton gives it a little shake, encouraging him to take it, but Calum only frowns deeper. “I’m just his trainer, Irwin. I shouldn’t be the one going to his _house_.”

Ashton makes a face that Calum can only describe as complete frustration, before he closes his eyes and rolls his neck slowly like he can work out all of the stress and inconvenience Calum is causing him that way. He lets the hand holding the envelope fall for a moment, but just when Calum thinks he’s in the clear, Ashton opens his eyes back up and points at him with the envelope with a newfound determination in his eyes.

“I couldn’t care less about that right now, alright? It’s not like you’ll get in trouble for running one little errand for the fighter we’re _both_ in charge of.” When Calum stays speechless, Ashton quirks an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth ticks up like he already knows he’s won the argument. “Hey, man, I can't force you. But, it's money in _your_ wallet. Personally, I wouldn’t pass it up.”

When Calum scoffs and reluctantly snatches the envelope out of Ashton’s hand, he tells himself it’s because of the extra cash at stake, and not because of the thankful and relieved smile Ashton gives him afterwards.

He’s not here to be making friends. _Really_ , he’s _not_.

*******

When Calum’s car rumbles and rolls to a stop in front of the duplex that both his GPS and Ashton’s handwritten directions assure him is the correct address, his first thought is that both Ashton _and_ modern technology must have failed him, because there’s no possible way that Michael can live somewhere so shady and run down. The neighborhood is clearly old and no longer looked after, seeing as all the lawns are unkempt and trash litters the sidewalks and streets like it’s a fashionable accessory rather than an eyesore.

He double checks the address several times over, before he sighs and grabs the surprisingly heavy envelope off of the passenger seat. Michael’s shocked him and proved him wrong before—he doesn’t see why the boy’s current living situation should be any different. Maybe newcomers in the league aren’t making as much income as Calum remembers they used to. Maybe Michael’s just too much of a bachelor to give up his hand-me-down place in exchange for something nicer.

Or, maybe Calum should stop thinking and caring so much wherever Michael is concerned.

He makes sure to watch his feet as he walks up the uneven, cracked sidewalk, anxious that he’ll somehow miscalculate one of the broken chunks of cement and find himself barreling towards the ground before he knows it.

Shifting his feet nervously against the battered welcome mat, Calum rings the doorbell and fights the urge to keep looking back over his shoulder. He can’t imagine how offensive that might be, if Michael were to catch him doing so.

When he hears Michael’s voice somewhere deep in the house, Calum almost falls over with the harsh slap of comfort and familiarity that the boy’s rough, whiskey tone gives him, before he suddenly remembers his place, remembers that he isn't supposed to _care_ about Michael. God, Calum doesn’t even _know_ the guy. His one moment of weakness at the gym a week ago hasn’t changed that.

Despite that Michael’s voice is the one that Calum had clearly heard behind the brick walls, it’s definitely _not_ Michael who unlocks and opens the door to greet him. Calum’s shocked to find an older woman—maybe about fifty—standing in the entryway, enough so that it literally sends him stumbling back a few steps.  

If Calum had Michael pegged for anything, it definitely wouldn't have been for a man who still lived at home with his mother. But this woman standing in front of him—at least a full head or two shorter than Michael— _has_ to be the boy’s mother. He can see so much of the fighter in this woman's face; can see so much of the same fire in their identical green eyes. In a way that Calum can’t quite explain, it's oddly _pleasant_ to see where Michael gets it from.

Calum musters up his nicest smile, opening his mouth on a greeting. Before he can say anything, though, a familiar hand is wrapping around the woman’s shoulder, tugging softly until she's coaxed into turning around.

“C’mon, Mom. I told you not to answer the door if I wasn't with you.” Michael says softly, so much more carefully than Calum's _ever_ heard from the boy that Calum’s actually stunned into silence. It's all he can do to watch in captivation as Michael coerces his mother into stepping back inside, before he reclaims her spot in front of the door.

“Hey.” Calum says, smiling gently.

The smile quickly falls from his face as soon as Michael steps out onto the front porch, slamming the door shut behind him and sending a surprised Calum back a couple more feet. Michael looks so _angry_ , so blisteringly _furious_ , and Calum isn't entirely sure what he's done wrong.

“What are you doing here?” Michael hisses, his voice low and clearly controlled. Probably so that his mother won't hear them talking.

Calum extends his hand with the envelope, giving it a little shake like Ashton had done to him earlier. Michael only hums, yanking the envelope out of Calum’s grip with an unnecessary amount of force.

“Irwin said you needed this by today. He was running late, and I—”

“You should have called.” Michael cuts him off, looking down at his pale fingers as they trace over the edges of the envelope. He looks and sounds like something Calum can't quite hang over him—desperation, maybe?—but in the blink of an eye, it's gone, and he's back to looking all stoic and angry.

“I didn't have your number.” Calum defends. When he sees Michael deflate, like the man knows he's being too harsh but can't bring himself to admit it, Calum sighs, and decides to throw him a bone. “Hey, I'm sorry, okay? It won't happen again, I promise.”

Michael makes a face that suggests he has a few other choice words he’d like to say to Calum for showing up unannounced like this, but all he does is hold out his free hand impatiently. “Give me your phone, then.”

Confused, Calum hands it over, fighting the urge to snatch it back when Michael starts scrolling through the pages to find his contacts app. He types in a number that Calum doesn't catch, before he locks the phone again and hands it back to Calum with just as much fervor as he'd used when taking it from him.

“What’s—”

“My number. Now you have it.” Michael explains. “So now there's no excuses. Fucking call ahead next time.”

When Michael turns and storms back into his house, slamming the door behind him and leaving Calum alone on the front porch, Calum isn't sure if he should feel endeared or intimidated.

Because the truth is, with Michael, Calum’s starting to find that he's always just a little bit of both.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally almost forgot that today was update day can u believe my stupid ass

Calum Hood doesn’t do _favors_. He _hates_ the feeling of obligation that weighs down on him after someone does one for him, which is why he does his best to avoid them at all costs. He doesn’t like feeling as though he owes someone anything, and he thinks he does a pretty okay job at making sure he’s always on even ground with everyone.

The thing about favors, though, is that once he does one for someone _else_ , completely unprompted, they always want to repay him. And while he doesn’t really consider being Ashton’s delivery boy a worthy excuse for repayment, Ashton must think it is.

That’s the only possible explanation Calum can come up with for why Ashton’s standing outside his front door at six o’clock in the evening, dressed in his usual business casual attire, complete with his big, signature smile.

“Hey!” Ashton greets, clearly ignoring Calum’s disheveled and sleepy appearance. “I know this is kind of a surprise, but I figured you’d press ignore if I even bothered to call you, so.” He shrugs, opening his arms in a sort of ‘here-I-am’ gesture, chuckling.

Calum can only sigh, because Ashton’s absolutely right. He totally would have ignored Ashton’s call, because: “It’s my day off.”

Ashton rocks back on his heels, lifting one hand to wave Calum’s excuse away. His smile never falters; he doesn’t even look _fazed_. “So, are you busy?” He cranes his neck to totally invasively look past Calum and into the apartment, where it’s obvious Calum’s been camped out on the couch with a case of beer and action movies for the last several hours. Calum fights the urge to step to the side and block his view. “I was hoping we could go grab a bite.”

Calum swallows. “Isn’t that kind of inappropriate? Going out together?”

Ashton pauses for several seconds, just staring back at him blankly before he snorts loudly, erupting into a fit of his contagious giggles. He shakes his head repeatedly, as if his laugh wasn’t patronizing enough, and Calum sort of wishes he could slam the door in Ashton’s face without fear of his pay being docked for it.

“The last thing I’m trying to do is _date you_ , Hood, holy shit.” Ashton laughs. “Come on, just go get ready. We can call it a business outing, if you prefer that to ‘two dudes who work together just trying to get to know one another’.”

Calum rolls his eyes, fighting back a smile, before he tells Ashton he’ll be right back after he’s cleaned himself up a bit.

*******

Despite Ashton’s earlier defense, Calum finds it difficult _not_ to imagine he’s being wined and dined by the manager once he sees where they'll be eating. The restaurant Ashton’s taken him to isn’t necessarily a five star, but it’s also a lot fancier than any place Calum’s ever gone out of his way to visit. That _could_ also be due to the fact that Calum avoids going out to eat anymore as much as possible, but that’s beside the point.

Ashton asks the hostess for his usual table, and she smiles before greeting Ashton by name and waving them back to a table by the window. The tabletops are almost all lit by candles, and when they sit down across from one another, Calum quirks an eyebrow.

“You’re _sure_ you aren’t attempting to seduce me?” Calum asks, and Ashton visibly rolls his eyes before picking up his menu.

“You could only dream of being with someone like me.” Ashton jokes back easily, and Calum chuckles in spite of himself. “Besides, there’s this.” Ashton adds, lifting up his left hand and swiveling it so that even the dim lighting of the restaurant causes the thick, silver band on Ashton’s ring finger to sparkle slightly.

Calum’s never noticed a ring before. He’s usually pretty observant, and even if he’s _not_ interested in someone romantically, eventually his eyes will always drift to see if they’re wearing one. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen this one on Ashton.

“I didn’t know you were married.” Calum says, scanning over the specials and deciding quickly on the most reasonably priced entrée he can find. “Is that recent?”

Ashton shakes his head, putting his hand back down. “Nah. Not unless you consider five years ago recent.”

“I’ve never seen you wearing a ring.” Calum notes, folding his menu and pushing it to the side. Ashton does the same a few moments later, humming in acknowledgement of Calum’s statement.

“I don’t wear it for work. Perrie always says doing so makes it easier for people to say things that get in your head, y’know? If they can see that you’re committed to someone. Easier to use it against you, or whatever.” Ashton shrugs, looking around in what’s probably an attempt to flag down their waitress.

Calum doesn’t say anything else about Ashton or his apparent marriage, just sits patiently when Ashton finally manages to get their waitress over to the table. He orders first when Ashton insists on it, then closes his mouth again and remains silent until after their waitress is gone and Ashton has refocused his full attention back to him.

“What about you?” Ashton asks.

Calum leans back slightly, brows furrowed. “What _about_ me?”

Ashton giggles, his stupidly radiant smile pissing Calum off for no real reason other than that it’s too bright and cheerful. “Are you married? Dating?”

Calum coughs, probably a lot more dramatically and loudly than either of them expected. He downs some water, shaking his head quickly when he’s done trying not to die.

It isn’t something Calum talks about, really. His personal life has always remained separate from his professional life, at least as much as he could help it. And despite how goddamn _likeable_ Ashton is, how _easy_ he makes it to talk to him and confess all of one’s problems to him, Calum can’t budge on that. It’s the only thing he has left for himself anymore.

So Calum just hums, staring down at his half empty water glass, at the ice cubes floating around aimlessly inside it. It’s a lot more of a _no_ than a _yes_ , and Ashton clearly picks up on that, despite that he’s silent for a few more moments, like he’s giving Calum a chance to go ahead and speak up. But when he doesn’t, Ashton moves on, completely undeterred.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter anyway, I guess. Relationships can be hectic, I’m sure it’s easier not to be tied down in your line of work.” Ashton says casually.

Calum frowns at the implication. “I don’t fight anymore.” He points out. “That's not my line of work.”

Ashton smirks. “I never said that it was.”

Calum feels himself fuming, suddenly shoved hurdling towards irritation at even _being here_ , but he's cut short by their waitress setting their respective meals down in front of them.

He rambles off a brief _thank you_ to her before she makes sure they have everything they need and scampers off, and then he makes a point of avoiding Ashton’s eyes while he picks the tomatoes off his burger.

Ashton doesn't apologize, but he does give Calum a somewhat remorseful look before he says: “Fine, you ask _me_ something, then. We’ll talk about something _you_ want to discuss.”

Calum sort of hates how quickly the word _Michael_ comes barreling into the front of his brain. He tells himself that it makes sense, though, that Michael is only on his mind because he's having dinner with a colleague, with Michael’s _manager_ , someone who knows probably everything there is to know about the anomaly Calum’s starting to think he may be just a bit irrationally enamored with.

“How did you and Michael meet?”

An expression caught somewhere between fondness and amusement takes over Ashton’s face, and he smiles softly. “Michael entered the league about a year and a half ago, but nobody was managing him for the first few months. I’d been out of the PR game for a bit, but I still kept up with the sport, obviously. Saw that Michael was absolutely _tanking_ when it came to the press, always saying the wrong thing, and he was just so _tense_ all the time, like he couldn’t ever just _relax_. Found out through a few calls that nobody even _wanted_ to work with the kid because of his attitude, and eventually the missus convinced me to go ahead and do what I was already itching to do anyway.” Ashton shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Approached him one day at his usual practice gym, and he agreed to work with me almost instantly. Don’t tell him I said so, but I’m pretty sure he was desperate for some guidance.” He gives Calum a wink, before he reaches for his fork and finally digs into the pasta in front of him.

Calum finds that something to say is hard to come by, stunned into silence at how casually Ashton’s admitted to Michael’s loneliness and misguidance. It makes Calum feel even worse for the kid—it seems like so much is piled on his shoulders, and Calum’s pretty sure he doesn’t even know the half of it.

He settles for: “He’s always been this distant, then? Even before you knew him?”

Ashton swallows his food, looking up from his plate with eyes that are much more serious than they’d been before. The corners of his lips twitch, mouth gone flat, and he sighs.

“Michael’s heart is a mess, Hood. I think it’s been like that long before either of _us_ came into the picture.” Ashton finally lets himself frown, then, and he suddenly looks away. “He’s just too proud to admit it, and I think that’s killing him. Only a little bit, but it's still there.”

Calum’s chest tightens, and he winces at the pain the words send throughout his entire body. His shoulder’s ache comes back in full force then, as if the meds from before have just suddenly worn off, and he tries to stretch the muscles out without being completely obvious about how much it hurts. He wonders if he could sneak a pill without Ashton noticing.

Apparently, though, Ashton catches on, because he perks up in his seat and his gaze hones in on Calum’s shoulder. He’s not even _trying_ to be subtle about it, and Calum feels suddenly exposed.

“That from the incident?” Ashton asks, and Calum huffs his affirmation. “You should be going to physical therapy. It could help.”

“I _am_.” Calum says quickly, but all Ashton does is laugh once, humorlessly.

“You’re a horrible liar, Hood. If you were going, you’d be doing heaps better by now.”

Instead of giving Ashton the same lecture that he always gives Luke, Calum just refocuses on his meal and cringes when he tries and fails to physically shrug off Ashton’s concerns. “It doesn’t work. So I stopped going. That’s all. It’s not a big deal, okay?”

Ashton snorts, taking a sip of the wine he’d ordered. “If you think it doesn’t work, you haven’t been to see Perrie yet.”

Calum’s eyebrows furrow. “Your wife?”

The manager nods, reaching into his back pocket and retrieving his wallet. While he digs around in it, he says, “She’s one of the best in California. Helped me out with my knee ages ago, and I feel like brand fuckin’ new.” A few moments later, he pulls out what he’d been looking for, and he hands Calum what looks like a business card. “Give her a call, and I’ll see if I can get you some free sessions, yeah?”

A _thank you_ is on the tip of Calum’s tongue, but before he can say it, Ashton’s already back to focusing on eating, like he knows how hard expressing the gratitude is for Calum and isn't bothered by the fact that he might not get any thanks from him.

In reality, Calum doesn’t even know why he _wants_ to thank Ashton. It’s not like he’s going to _go_. If his shoulder was ever going to get better, it would’ve happened by now. He knows that much.

He pockets the card anyway, and he sure as hell doesn’t miss Ashton’s subtle half-smile when he’s caught doing so.

*******

(Once Calum’s back in the comfort and solitude of his apartment, he turns the card over in his hand again and again and _again_ , and he almost throws it in the trash twice, before he sets it down on his nightstand and accepts the fact that he’ll probably be calling Ashton’s wife in the morning.)

*******

Michael hasn’t had very many offbeat days, in what little time Calum’s known him. It’s rare for the fighter to be anything less than impressive and meticulous in his movements.

Today, though, Calum’s almost _concerned_. He hasn’t ever seen Michael take this many hits from Luke, nor has he seen him get pinned to the mat so easily time after time. He considers for just a second that maybe Luke has just finally figured Michael out, but that can’t be true. That’s just not _possible_ ; Michael’s too _good_ for that.

When Luke effortlessly sweeps Michael’s legs out from under him for the third time in a row, Calum starts to think there’s probably something a lot bigger coming into play—something neither he nor Luke can possibly have any control over, at least not today. Michael’s just too out of it, taking several seconds to recover from hits and even longer to get back to his feet whenever Calum tells them to reset.

It’s a worried glance from Luke that has Calum sighing before he blows his whistle to signify the end of the round. Michael has Luke beat to the cage door by seconds, and Calum quirks an eyebrow at his best friend when Michael rushes past them in order to go sit down on his usual bench.

Luke just gives Calum a shrug in return, panting heavily and sweating just as much. His practice t-shirt is soaked through the back and his hair is matted to his forehead, but he looks good compared to Michael, who’s starting to look even more pale than usual.

“Has he said anything to you?” Luke asks, grabbing his towel and water bottle off the cage stairs before starting towards the locker room.

Calum shakes his head before he follows his friend, trying not to let his eyes linger on Michael’s slumped, defeated figure. Once they’re out of earshot and the locker room door is shut behind them, Calum says, “He’s not himself today.”

Luke snorts, opening his locker and pulling out his shower bag. “You don’t say?” He digs around inside the bag for his change of clothes while Calum leans his back up against the wall beside the door. He’s itching to go out and ask if the boy’s okay, but something tells him that’d only make things worse.

He’s not expecting it when Luke adds, “Y’know, I still think he’d be improving a lot faster if you were the one in the ring with him.”

And yeah, Calum _knows_ that’s always gonna be the elephant in the room. Luke’s his _best friend_ , he wouldn’t be doing his job as said best friend if he didn’t pressure Calum to get better every single chance he got.

That doesn’t mean it isn’t absolutely irritating, though.

Calum just scoffs, staring down at his feet and pretending he can’t feel Luke’s body turning to face him; that he can’t feel the heavy, disappointed stare his friend is giving him.

“Feel free to stop bringing that up anytime, Luke.” Calum snaps, and his friend just rolls his eyes before grabbing his bag and walking further back into the locker room, towards the showers. Once he’s gone, Calum exhales shakily, closing his eyes and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He feels awful for bitching at Luke all the time, but like. He’s also pretty sick of being ridiculed by Luke all the time, too.

It’s obvious that Luke isn’t coming back to fight him on the topic once the sound of running water fills the echoic room, and Calum decides he’s done for the day, since everyone else appears to be. He grabs his own duffel bag from his locker quickly, and he gets halfway through pulling off his hoodie before his shoulder starts screaming in protest, and with gritted teeth, he lowers the piece of clothing back down into place.

Calum’s expecting to find an empty practice space once he exits the locker room, but he’s a bit surprised to find a familiar boy still sitting on his bench, legs pulled to his chest and chin resting on top of his knees. His hands are still wrapped, like he couldn’t even be bothered to undo the tape, and he’s staring straight ahead at the cage, but Calum’s pretty sure he’s not really _seeing_ it so much as he’s looking right through it. 

He should just leave. He _knows_ that he should just leave, that he should ignore the tug in his gut that’s telling him to approach the boy. Michael doesn’t exactly have a track record of positive reactions to Calum interacting with him, and yet, something tells Calum that this is different. He’s never seen Michael like this before, it feels like something much more serious.

That’s how he justifies it when he starts walking over to Michael’s bench, how he justifies it when he asks, “You alright, Clifford?”

Michael startles, visibly shaken at Calum’s sudden presence. He turns, looking up at the brown boy, and Calum feels his heart lurch when he catches sight of Michael’s red eyes. He looks so out of it, so close to tears, even, and Calum isn’t sure if it would be better or worse if he sat down beside the boy.

“I’m, uh. It’s just—” Michael says weakly, and he rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. He seems surprised at himself when he pulls it back and finds that his fingers are wet, and seeing it worries Calum enough that he decides to take a seat on the bench beside the pale boy. He can't just leave the guy here like this, no matter how they’ve acted towards each other in the past.

Calum’s not expecting Michael to tell him anything, so he’s shocked when Michael whispers, “She’s sick.”

Calum frowns. “Who, Mike? Who’s sick?” He tries not to dwell on the nickname he’s just allowed to slip past his lips, but Michael doesn’t seem to care. What with the blank expression on his face, Calum wouldn’t be surprised if the younger boy hadn’t even _heard_ him.

“My, um.” Michael shakes his head, looking down at his hands. “My mom.”

Calum thinks back to the day he’d showed up at Michael’s doorstep, at how lost the woman had seemed until Michael led her back inside. He thinks back to the day at the gym, when Ashton had asked Michael about his mother’s well being. How Michael had lost his composure almost instantaneously at the mere _mention_ of the woman. And suddenly, with just the words _she’s sick_ , Michael’s reactions make a whole lot more sense. Calum feels _awful_ for the times he accused Michael of not having a single _real_ problem to deal with in this world, when the fighter’s been carrying _this_ around with him.

All of Michael's harshness, his bluntness, his brash behavior—it all comes together in one heartbreaking second.

Calum forces down the rush of sadness he feels, because he knows that Michael’s probably feeling enough of it for the both of them already. He can’t even fathom how inappropriate it’d be for him to tell Michael he’s _sorry_ , for something he can't _possibly_ understand.

“You don’t have to tell me anything else.” Calum reassures him, keeping his physical distance, and yet finding himself unable to take his eyes off of Michael’s deflated body. His hand physically aches with the effort it’s taking not to reach out and squeeze Michael’s shoulder in that _I’m here for you_ kind of way. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Michael leans his head back against the wall behind them, staring up at the ceiling. His breaths are shaky, and Calum can _see_ the effort he’s putting into keeping his watery eyes at bay.

He’s silent for so long that Calum almost thinks that’s gonna be it, that Michael isn’t comfortable sharing anything more than that. And Calum is fine with that, completely content with just sitting beside the boy until he’s finally ready to face the world outside of the gym again.

But then, Michael whispers, “Alzheimer’s. Since I was seventeen.” He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut, and Calum feels his own mouth drop open in shock. “Early onset. She had a rough morning today, and I just—I couldn’t, Cal. I can’t _focus_ when I know that she’s at home all alone, wondering where the hell I've gone off to even though I remind her every morning. Like, she’s got my aunt, who comes to see her every day while I’m here, but like.” He sniffles, shrugging in a way that looks almost exasperated. Calum wishes he had the answers Michael’s clearly so desperate for. “What kind of son am I? Pawning her off onto other people like that, like she’s a _burden_?”

Michael probably wasn’t actively waiting for a response, but regardless, he scoots closer, resting his palm on Michael’s back as he murmurs, “You’re _strong_ , Michael, for risking your life to provide for the both of you. This isn’t an easy career, I know, but it’s what you’re _good_ at. _Brilliant_ at. And I think that doing this for her makes you a fucking _wonderful_ son.”

Michael turns his head to look at Calum so fast that they almost knock foreheads, but Calum leans back just in time to avoid the collision. The red haired boy just stares at him for several seconds, and Calum notices how his lip quivers, sees how he isn’t allowing himself anything more than that.

Calum doesn’t think there’s anything he could say to make the situation any better, so all he says is, “For what it’s worth, I’m so sorry.” And even though it feels so simple and useless to Calum, it's apparently enough, because not even a second later, Michael’s collapsing forward into Calum’s arms, body suddenly shaking with heavy sobs, and it’s all Calum can do to stroke the boy’s back in slow, comforting circles.

They stay like that until Michael doesn’t have anything left to get out, until the front of Calum’s hoodie is practically soaked with his tears. And even after that, Calum doesn’t let him go, because the gentle squeeze that Michael has on his thigh tells Calum that the boy isn’t done with just being _held_ yet.

Calum can at least do this for him. For all of the things that Michael’s been through, Calum can manage this. 

*******

Calum drives around for at least forty extra minutes before he decides that he can’t avoid going home forever. As upset as he is for Michael, it’s been an hour since they finally went their separate ways back at the gym, and he can’t spend time thinking about a boy for whom Calum must be the last thing on his mind.

When he finally unlocks his apartment door, it feels lonelier than usual, somehow. He assumes that has to be the melancholy burrowing its way underneath his skin, but still, he hates it.

He wanders into the kitchen for a glass of water, and he’s pretty sure that it’s the sympathy for Michael still eating away at him that actually makes him _pause_ for a second before he habitually reaches out for the ‘Delete All’ button on his answering machine.

It’s been ages since he let himself talk to anyone that used to matter to him. Since he spoke with Poxleitner, with his friends from back home, with his own _family_. And normally, he wouldn’t really care about that fact at all.

But for the first time in years, and for reasons Calum isn’t entirely sure of (except that he’s 100% sure have everything to do with the crippling fear that maybe something has happened to his own mother in the last three years since he’s seen her), he doesn’t delete his voicemails.

For the first time in years, he _listens_.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyyyy I really thought this chapter was gonna be longer but I'm coming to realize all these chapters are like 4k so I guess that's just where we're at rn

Ashton is able to come through for Calum on his promise of a couple free physical therapy sessions, and after several not-so-subtle hints are dropped by the manager at practice, Calum decides to finally cash them in.

Ashton’s wife has an office based in a relatively low traffic area of Los Angeles, which Calum is thankful for, because it means the chances of him being recognized while out and about are a lot slimmer. The downside, though, is that it’s actually pretty out of the way, and Calum’s close to calling it quits _twice_ before he’s even _gotten_ there.

As soon as he’d walked in, the receptionist had waved him back, like she was already expecting him. Probably she was, since the office is empty aside from the two of them. He wonders if Ashton had asked his wife to arrange for it to happen this way.

When he opens the door to the actual gym, he’s mildly surprised to find that it’s empty as well, aside from a petite blonde woman, who’s reorganizing some medicine balls on the wall opposite Calum. He clears his throat when the sound of the door opening doesn’t catch her attention, and she suddenly stands up straight, startled, before she spins around in the direction of the noise. The fact that she’s absolutely _beautiful_ is Calum’s first thought regarding Ashton’s wife, because even from here, he can see the incredible sky blue color of her eyes, and when she gives Calum a big smile, he’s very nearly _blinded_ by it.

“You must be Calum!” She beams, walking over towards him as she pulls her long hair back into a high ponytail. She secures it with a hair tie before she sticks her hand out, and Calum returns her surprisingly firm handshake. “I’m Perrie. Ash told me you needed some one-on-one time.”

The scoff comes out before Calum can stop it, but Perrie doesn’t look offended, on her own behalf _or_ her husband’s. “Ashton thinks you can fix something unfixable.” He says, rolling his eyes. “No offense, but therapy hasn’t helped me in almost three years. One-on-one or not, I don’t think—”

Perrie cuts him off, waving her hand dismissively. “Nonsense.” She nods over her shoulder, signaling for Calum to follow her, and he sighs before he tags along after her. “If I can help someone as stubborn as Ashton, I can help you. I promise.”

She grabs an elastic band from one of the several hooks on the wall, then bends over in order to lay it out on the floor in between them. When she stands back up, it’s with her foot in the center of the band, and one of the handles in each of her small fists.

“With all due respect, ma’am, you can’t exactly promise something like that.” Calum mumbles.

Perrie looks thoughtful for a moment, before her eyes light up again and she shrugs. “If you still feel like you haven’t improved by the end of this, I’ll comp all the sessions. Not just the first two. How’s that sound?”

Calum raises an eyebrow, shocked. “That’s awfully bold.”

“Yeah, well.” She quirks her own perfectly shaped brow back at him, like a challenge. Calum can’t imagine how she is in disagreements with her own _husband_ , if this is how she acts with _clients_. He almost feels _bad_ for Ashton—he can’t imagine it’s easy to win an argument with Perrie. “I’m pretty damn good at my job.”

She gives the handles over to Calum, keeping her foot on the elastic band. He can already feel the resistance in the band, can feel his shoulder twitching in disagreement with what he’s about to do.

He looks up, hesitant, but instead of being met with the somewhat cocky and forceful expression from before, he finds Perrie giving him these soft, soothing eyes.

“It’ll be hard.” She tells him. “But it’s supposed to be hard. Nothing worthwhile ever came from sitting around and _waiting_ to get better.”

Calum looks back down at his fists, which are wrapped around the handles she’d given him. He pulls on one experimentally, with his good shoulder, and he knows without even trying that it’ll be hell to even _attempt_ the other. He opens his mouth, ready to tell her this was stupid, that he can’t possibly manage this much so quickly.

Before he’s able to say any of that, though, Perrie whispers, “You _can_. You can do this, Calum.”

And really, he’s not so sure about that quite yet. But with her encouraging eyes and smile that holds so much promise, Calum thinks he might just be able to _start_.

*******

Hours later, Calum _still_ feels like he’s been through hell and back. And honestly, he sort of _has_ , because he hasn’t put his shoulder through that much strenuous activity since the immediate physical therapy he’d received in the first month or so after the injury happened. He hasn’t been able to move it without wincing—more so than normal—since he left the office earlier that afternoon.

Perrie had sent him off with a pleasant smile and a pack of ice, and Calum had groaned the whole drive home, his shoulder on ice while he did all his steering and signaling with one arm. He’d cursed her entire existence the entire drive, too, but he’s too intimidated by her to _not_ go back in the upcoming day or two.

He’s been sitting on his couch since he got home, watching bad TV and the occasional UFC rerun while trying to pretend his shoulder isn’t absolutely _throbbing_. During a commercial break, he reaches over to the end table, grabbing his prescription bottle and struggling to open it one handed.

Just as he’s about to cave and use his bad arm to assist himself, his cell phone goes off. Only a select few people have that number, since he usually has all his calls go straight to his landline so that he can promptly ignore them.

Leaning over, Calum sees a contact he definitely wasn't expecting to displayed across the screen, but instead of letting the call go to voicemail like he usually does, his curiosity gets the better of him, and he grabs the phone before it can stop ringing. He slides across the screen to answer it, and hesitantly, he asks, “Hello?”

There’s some shuffling on the other end, before Michael says, “Hood! Ashton said you wouldn’t answer.”

Ashton is a likely explanation for how Michael got his hands on Calum’s number, since Calum never gave it to him, but it’s not an explanation for _why_ Michael Clifford is calling him at nearly seven o’clock at night, when they’re due to have practice in twelve hours.

“I wasn’t going to.” Calum admits, setting his prescription bottle back on the end table and making a note to try and get a pill out of it once this conversation is over. Which, hopefully, won’t be too much later than now. “Did you need something? Is everything alright?”

He _hates_ how concerned he sounds, but he also can’t really blame himself for it. Michael had dropped a lot on him the other day at the gym, and Calum had _offered_ a lot right back the very second he pulled Michael in and held him close until the guy ran out of tears.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Michael says, and Calum closes his eyes at how blatant the smile in the fighter’s voice is. The thought of Michael _smiling_ shouldn’t do this to him, shouldn’t make his face warm or his stomach twist. That doesn’t change the fact that it _does_ , though. “Was just wondering if maybe you, um, wanted to grab drinks?”

Calum bites his lip, looking at the digital clock beside his TV. 7:13 seems like an odd time to go get drinks with someone that’s only barely become an almost-friendly-acquaintance, but he’s strangely inclined to say yes.

Instead of making up an excuse about having things to do like his brain is telling him to, Calum just says, “Where at? Should I meet you somewhere?”

After Michael cheerfully rambles off the address of the bar and says to meet him there at 8, they hang up, and Calum immediately heads to his bedroom to clean himself up. 

When he slips out the front door twenty minutes later, it’s with nothing but Michael on his brain, and he forgets to grab the bottle of Vicodin, sitting isolated on the end table where he’d left it.

*******

Calum’s mildly surprised to find that the dive bar Michael’s chosen isn’t one of those all-around sports bars, that despite being in the midst of the UFC’s season, there isn’t a single TV in the entire place that’s airing a fight. Maybe the patrons here don’t typically care about the sport, but Calum isn’t complaining, because it means there’s a high chance that neither of them will be singled out.

He spots the fighter immediately, seated at one of the high tables and already nursing a bottle of beer. He appears to be watching one of the flat screens that’s airing a hockey match, and Calum chuckles at how engrossed the boy looks. Without making his presence known, Calum gets his own beer from the bar before making his way over to the table.

“Who’s playing?” Calum asks casually, smirking when Michael nearly jumps out of his seat.

When Michael realizes who’s just snuck up on him, he relaxes, laughing in spite of himself. He gives Calum a little salute with his bottle, before he motions for the boy to sit down across from him. Calum tries not to seem too eager when he takes Michael up on the offer.

“Kings and the Sharks.” Michael explains, as if Calum follows enough hockey to know who the hell either of those teams are. He just nods, looking over his shoulder just in time to catch a missed shot on goal, and chuckles when he hears Michael sigh in relief.

“I didn’t take you for a hockey man.” Calum says, spinning back to face the red haired boy and finding that Michael seemed to be looking at _him_ the whole time Calum was turned away, _not_ the screen. It’s obvious in the way Michael quickly averts his eyes, coughing, and Calum wills himself not to blush or, like, have these stupid butterflies in his stomach.

“I’m not.” Michael says. “I mean, I am, but also not really. I don’t follow much of the stats. I just know that the Kings have to win, because, like. LA.”

Calum laughs. “Hometown pride, I hear you.”

Michael only hums, bringing his eyes back to Calum’s face and finally keeping them there, more sure of himself this time. He studies Calum for a long minute, enough for Calum to feel slightly insecure. Slowly, he lifts his bottle, taking a sip from it before he lowers it again and gives Calum a determined look.

“I have a question for you.” Michael states, “But you might not like it.”

Calum swallows. “Well, then maybe you shouldn’t ask it.”

Michael nods once, like that clearly makes sense to him. But Calum suspects that maybe Michael hadn’t been on his first (or even second or _third_ ) beer by the time Calum arrived, because the boy just says, “Prob’ly. But I think I’m gonna anyway. I wanna know.”

Calum isn’t sure if he’s relieved or disappointed that Michael’s already a bit tipsy, evident by the way he’s boldly making statements and slurring just a bit. Apparently a part of him had been hoping for a sober conversation, maybe about what had happened at the gym before. But he also sort of respects that maybe Michael’s not entirely comfortable with ever talking about that again, which Calum supposes is fine, too. It’s not like Michael _owes_ him anything.

“Why do you coach?” Michael asks. “Why do you ‘coach’ me, and yet refuse to participate in the physical shit in even the slightest way? I've never had a coach like that.”

Michael had been right—Calum doesn’t care for that question at all. He doubts Michael’s drunk enough for him to get away with just outright avoiding answering it, but he knows for sure there’s a lot to answering that question that involves bringing up past events he doesn’t want Michael to know anything about. Not even _Ashton_ had wanted to burden Michael with the information, which, as insulting as it had felt at the time, Calum’s pretty relieved about. Because that means there's one less person in the world that looks at him like he’s a kicked puppy.

So instead of talking about the _only_ thing—possibly in the whole world—that he _doesn’t_ want to discuss, Calum says, “Luke’s closer to your style. Figured that he’d be a better fit for you.”

Michael just snorts, disgustingly loud, before he takes another long sip from his beer. “You don’t want to talk about it, fine. But Luke’s not anywhere near my style. I could kick his ass with my hands tied.”

Calum bursts out a surprised laugh before he can even register that he’s about to do it, and he claps a hand over his mouth to subdue it. Michael smirks back, clearly content with himself.

“I know you could.” Calum says honestly, a few seconds later. “You could kick _anyone_ in the Lightweights’ ass with your hands tied, if you really wanted to. That's the whole reason Irwin’s pushing to move you up.”

Michael stops smiling then, giving Calum this solemn look that’s pretty close to an expression of genuine shock at receiving a compliment like that. But he has to know it’s true. Calum highly doubts that Michael _doesn’t_ know he’s the literal _best_ at his job.

He shakes it off as soon as it's there, though, firing back at Calum with: “I'm old news in the Lightweights at this point. Ash is pushing me to move up because he thinks I have a chance at better sponsors in Middleweights, and I think you know that.”

Calum bites his tongue, because _yeah_ , maybe he _does_ know that, albeit not in so many words. But he also knows Ashton, however briefly, and he can tell how much Michael means to the man. Calum doesn't believe for even a _second_ that Ashton doesn't have Michael’s best interest at heart in every decision he makes regarding the fighter’s career.

“Wanna know why I even started fighting?” Michael asks suddenly, and Calum’s surprised at the question, but he shrugs and nods anyway. “Like, you already know about my mom. About how she was diagnosed when I was seventeen? It’s just me and her now, but it used to be me and her and my father. He walked out the _day_ I turned eighteen. Couldn’t _wait_ to get out of there, apparently. Couldn't wait to be done with it all, to pretend it didn't exist, that his wife wasn't gonna get sick. She wasn't even, like, _bad_ then. Wasn't forgetting things yet or _anything_. He just quit while he was ahead, left me to deal with it by myself when her memory finally _really_ started heading downhill last year. Can you imagine? How can you say you'll love someone forever, and then just walk out like it’s nothing when things get hard?”

Calum frowns, and swears he feels his heart break a little bit more than it already has for Michael in the past few days alone. An apology still feels wrong, because it’s not like Calum has anything to be sorry _for_ , but Michael’s tensed muscles relax just a little bit every time he says it, so he doesn’t think he’ll stop doing so anytime soon.

Michael clears his throat, clearly ready to move on from the topic of his father. “Anyway. I was always good at fighting. Granted, they were these little schoolyard fights, and it wasn’t good or clean at all. Not like now, not like how they teach you, with those UFC guidelines. So for awhile after my dad left, I did the underground stuff for some extra under the table cash, just trying to make ends meet. Waited until I turned twenty-one so that I could join the league and finally start making some _real_ money.” Michael sighs. “Fighting’s all I’m good at. And my mom _hates_ it, but that's probably because she doesn’t really get it, or remember, I guess. Not even on her good days.”

It’s all Calum can do to reach out across the table, wrapping his hand around Michael’s wrist and squeezing softly. He can feel it when Michael exhales, like he’s been holding the breath and only Calum’s reassurance allowed him to release it.

“It’s not the same, I know, not nearly as hard as what you’ve been through, but. I haven’t seen my family in almost three years.” Calum confesses. He doesn’t think he’s ever said it aloud to someone before, not in so many words. Luke’s always just _known_ about Calum’s distance from them, and Ashley knows firsthand, because he pushed her away for just as long. Michael just makes it so damn _easy_ , sitting across from him so _vulnerably_ , with his beautiful ‘tell me all your problems’ eyes that Calum can tell he doesn't give freely to very many people.

“Did they cut you off?” Michael wonders. “For fighting, or something?”

Calum shakes his head. “No, no. Nothing like that. My mom actually never argued with me on it. Kept going on about how she was scared I’d get hurt or whatever, but.” He trails off, biting his tongue when he realizes how dangerously close to home that was. If he isn’t careful, he’ll say a lot more than he intends to. “Dad always thought it was badass. My sister could care less, I think. She just always said I’d better let her know if I ran into any single athletes.”

He laughs at the memory of Mali’s ridiculous request, and Michael chuckles right along, despite that he doesn’t have the image and recollection of the girl like Calum does. He misses his sister more than anyone, some days. 

“Why, then?” Michael asks. “Why wouldn’t you talk to them for three _years_?”

Calum bites his lip, looking down at the table as though the wood grain in it has suddenly become the most interesting thing on the planet. He draws his hand back from where it had still been touching Michael’s wrist, surprised at himself.

“Not sure. They still live across the country. I guess distance took its toll.” He bullshits, and either he’s getting better at doing that, or Michael’s decided to let this one slide, since all he does is shrug. And really, it's not a _total_ lie, because they _do_ live across the country, but. Distance isn't the thing to blame.

“Family’s important. You can’t let them fade away on you.” Michael says softly. “You should try reaching out. I bet they’d love to hear from you.”

Calum would agree with that. He hasn’t had the guts to actually _call_ his family back yet, but he’s been listening to their messages the last few days, and he thinks that’s a pretty big start for him. Just hearing his mother’s voice that first night had him breaking down in tears—she’d sounded like she missed him so badly, like she was so _tired_ of having to miss him. Calum knows he has to call them back eventually. Poxleitner, too, probably. He can’t let any of them just _disappear_ on him, even though he did the exact same thing to them.

“Yeah.” Is all Calum says, swirling his thumb over the rim of his bottle. He’s thinking too hard, and Michael can probably tell; he can practically feel the veins in his neck sticking out like they always do when he’s too tense.

But Michael doesn’t bring the topic up again. As a matter of fact, instead of talking about fighting at all, he just asks, “Want me to get you up to speed on the NHL?”

He looks just as relieved as Calum feels when the brown boy nods eagerly, and he motions for Calum to swing his chair around beside his own so that they can face the TV together.

And yeah, maybe Calum isn’t focusing on the rules of the game so much as he’s focusing on the smell of Michael’s musky cologne and the way that the pale boy overtly leans into him whenever he explains something. But in his defense, Michael’s a whole lot more interesting than men with sticks skating around on ice (and maybe a whole lot prettier, too).

Michael makes him feel like for once, he’s less alone in the world. He makes Calum feel _something_ for the first time in three years.

And to Calum, that’s enough of a reason to keep right on watching him.

*******

When Calum gets back to his apartment after parting ways with Michael at the bar, it’s with too many drinks in his system and a whole lot of unresolved _feelings_ towards a certain red haired boy that are _completely_ inconvenient swirling around in his head.

But it’s also with a lot of liquid confidence. Liquid _courage_.

That’s the only way he’s able to justify the reason that he heads straight for the drawer on his entertainment center the moment after he shuts and locks his apartment door behind himself. He’s stumbling a bit in his inebriated state, but he manages to bend down, open the drawer, and find the dreaded VHS tape buried at the back of it in a relatively impressive amount of time.

 **HOOD V. PHILIPPOU, JULY 2013** , it reads, and it feels all new to him, as if Calum hasn’t reread those words hundreds of times over in the last few years.

He’s never watched it. Even wasted, he knows there’s a reason for that. He knows that watching it will only make it worse, will make it even harder to deal with, because then he’ll have seen what everyone _else_ that was watching that night saw. What his _family_ saw, on live television, all the way across the country, helpless.

Undoubtedly, he pauses for a long moment, just staring at the tape and wondering why the hell Poxleitner _ever_ insisted that he hold onto the damn thing. But before he can psych himself out, he slides the tape out of its sleeve and throws it into the VCR he keeps around strictly for watching old, recorded fights.

Breathlessly, he sits down in the middle of the living room floor, and prepares to relive the night his life came screeching to a halt.


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually try to update in the morning but work came for my ass today so it's a little later than I usually post. Sorry :(
> 
> Also don't forget about this super rad [playlist](https://play.spotify.com/user/dafeedil13/playlist/3CZ8yOa8Cy7ZkxLDATWx67)!

Calum hardly registers it when the heavy gym door to his left swings open. He’s the first one in, has been sitting there on the cage steps for probably hours now. His head is pounding from all the drinking he’d done last night, from both _before_ he’d left the bar he and Michael had been at, and from _after_ he’d finished watching the tape.

His knees won’t stop bouncing, anxious and jittery in a way that sheer willpower alone won’t prevent. He’s playing mindlessly with his prescription bottle, watching lazily as he turns it over and over between his fingers. The label on it is starting to look blurry with how shaky his hands are, but that’s another thing Calum can’t stop. Hasn’t been able to since last night.

He hasn’t slept.

“Hey!” Luke calls, and Calum squeezes his eyes shut, holding his prescription bottle with one hand while the other shoots up to rub at the bridge of his nose. “You’re here! And I thought _I_ was gonna be the early one.”

He hears footsteps coming closer, obviously belonging to Luke, and without looking up Calum can feel it when his best friend puts his gym bag down and takes a seat on the steps beside him.

“I’m pretty sure this is the closest I’ve seen you to the cage in years, mate.” Luke chuckles, leaning to the side and bumping their shoulders together casually, like he always does to show Calum he’s only teasing. Usually Calum will nudge him right back, but today, he winces. It’s entirely involuntary, but Luke notices, of course, and Calum feels him shift awkwardly. “You okay, man?”

Calum almost laughs at the question, at how _impossibly_ far off Luke is. Instead of answering directly, Calum whispers hoarsely, “I watched the tape last night.”

Calum swears that the entire gym falls silent then; that even the static and white noise in the background fades away to absolutely nothing. He’s pretty sure that Luke isn’t even _breathing_ right now, that he’s just holding the air in while he tries to think of a response for Calum that would be appropriate following an announcement such as that.

Cautiously, Luke asks, “Do you, um. Do you wanna talk about it, or…?”

Calum’s eyes shoot open of their own accord, and he lifts his head, but he doesn’t turn to look at Luke quite yet. Instead, he just grits his teeth, stroking his thumb in rough circles over the lid of his prescription bottle. He can feel Luke’s heavy eyes watching the small, calculated movement, like he’s waiting for Calum to burst. Which.

“What’s there to talk about?” Calum says nonchalantly, lifting his shoulders before letting them fall limp. “I watched some guy beat me until I blacked out in the cage, and then beat me some more.”

Luke shifts, uncomfortable, and he whispers, “Cal.”

Calum ignores him, bypassing his friend’s attempt at comfort. “I watched Poxleitner trying to get into the cage so she could pull Philippou off of me her damn self.” He sighs heavily, before he finally turns and gives Luke the most spiteful glare he can muster. “But you know what I didn’t watch? _You_. I didn’t see you anywhere _near_ that cage, Luke. You didn’t do a fucking _thing_ to help me.”

His eyes sting with hot, hurt tears, and Luke reels back, seemingly shocked at the turn Calum’s statement has taken. Luke starts shaking his head, ready to defend himself.

“Whoa, whoa. What the fuck?” Luke spits. “How’re you going to sit there and spin this into me being some kind of shitty friend?” The blond uses his hands to push himself off the stairs, standing rigidly before Calum, who’s still seated. His fists are balling up by his sides, but Calum can see him forcing his fingers to relax, slowly, one by one. “I’ve been here for you ever since it happened. Just because I didn’t offer my own head to that psycho doesn’t—” He cuts himself off when his voice cracks right down the middle, but he shakes it off before it can get any worse. When he speaks again, he’s almost silent. “It doesn’t mean a piece of me didn’t _die_ watching it happen to you. To my _best friend_.”

The thing is, Calum _knows_ what Luke means, what he’s trying to say. Calum knows his intentions are _so_ good and pure, that Luke would never mean it to be rude and hurtful.

But Calum _needs_ to be angry, and he thinks that for once he _deserves_ to be. Probably it shouldn’t be at Luke, because Luke is right—he’s been nothing short of the greatest friend Calum’s ever had, even _before_ Calum got hurt. And if Luke hadn’t showed up here right when Calum was at his absolute worst, at his breaking point, then they probably wouldn’t even be having this conversation.

But for now, Luke _is_ here, and Calum _is_ angry, and a set of poor circumstances has Calum rolling his eyes and telling Luke not to do him any favors.

Luke scoffs in disbelief. “You know what, Calum? As long as we’re being honest, I think I should tell you that it’s time to cut your shit.”

Calum narrows his eyes, looking up at Luke with blood boiling in his veins. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Luke snaps right back, before he sighs, kneeling down in front of where his friend is seated on the steps. He looks at Calum carefully, with eyes that should be angry but instead hold nothing but concern. “It’s never going to get easier if you don’t accept what happened to you. Because it fucking _sucks_ , what Philippou did to you, but it’s over, it’s done. It’s not going to change. You can’t _change_ it, kid.”

Calum clenches his jaw, shaking his head like he can make the words disappear, just like that. It doesn’t work, obviously, and they keep ricocheting around his brain over and over, like a bitter reminder that of _course_ , Luke is _always right_.

Intelligently, Calum spits, “Shut the fuck up, Luke.”

Luke just rolls his eyes, pushing himself back upright. “You want me to shut up?” He asks harshly, outstretching his arms and taking a couple steps backwards. “Come make me shut up.”

It sounds so immature, so utterly elementary of him, but Calum’s _just_ desperate enough that he shoots to his feet, seeing red as he crowds Luke’s space. Luke doesn’t back down, though, just holds his ground and squares his shoulders in that way Calum’s come to so easily recognize in the years that they’ve been friends. Luke’s willing to _fight_ him— _ready_ to, if it comes to that. Calum’s fist clenches, and he sees on his friend’s face the _exact_ moment that Luke notices the movement.

“Go ahead.” Luke murmurs, taunting and yet simultaneously delicate. Encouraging. “Hit me. You’ve made it this far.” He lifts a hand, pressing it to Calum’s good shoulder and pushing slightly. A soft shove, just to piss him off.

Calum tells himself to do it just to get Luke off his back, to just deliver a solid hook like he’s done dozens of times in spars with his friend. But this is different, it’s so _much_ at once, and it’s for all the wrong reasons. He’s angry, but he’s not brave. He’s not _ready_.

“I can’t, Lu.” Calum whispers brokenly. “I can’t.”

Luke sighs, but he doesn’t push Calum again. “Yes, you _can_. It’s in your head, kid. It has been for years now. It’s never gonna get easier if you don’t face that.”

And that, well. That just sends a rush of hurt plummeting to his stomach, because Luke _knows_ how much pain he’s been in. How _distraught_ he’s been for three whole years now over one single night that destroyed everything he had, everything he knew. And for Luke to just dismiss something like that as all in his head, as something that isn’t even _tangible_ , is infuriating. Insulting. It feels like being stabbed in the back by the one person he never expected it from.

He doesn’t get a chance to tell Luke any of that, though, because someone clears their throat.

It isn’t either of them, Calum quickly realizes, and he takes a moment to look away from Luke’s icy eyes to glance over at their unexpected audience. He almost wishes he hadn’t, because it only makes things worse.

“What’s going on?” Michael asks, giving Luke a distrustful onceover. “What are you doing?”

Luke snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Stay out of this, Clifford. S’not your business.”

Calum feels like _crying_ , his eyes hot with angry, embarrassed tears. He’s trying to hold it in, though he knows full well that it’s probably too obvious. He tries to sidestep around Luke, to rush back out to his car and beloved solitude, but Luke reads him too fast and blocks his path.

“Why won’t you fight back?” Luke demands, and Calum whimpers desperately.

“I _can’t_.” He reiterates, and Luke just scoffs like he doesn’t believe it for a second.

“You _can_.” Luke says. “You’ve done it before.”

Calum’s silent for a long, uncomfortable moment before he whispers, “I was different then, Luke. That—that was before.”

Luke doesn’t even look angry so much as he looks _disappointed_ , then, and Calum wishes that for _once_ his best friend would look at him with something other than that. For the past three years all he’s felt is inadequate—he’s so _tired_ of his best friend looking at him differently, no matter _how_ much he knows Luke cares about him, about his wellbeing.

“You know what?” Luke sneers. “You’re right. I forgot. You got the shit beat out of you, and suddenly, you’re the biggest coward that I’ve ever known.”

Luke backs off then, shaking his head, and Calum _seethes_. He hates that Luke doesn’t see how unfair it is for him to say something like that—he’s never been in Calum’s situation. He’s never known what kind of _hell_ Calum’s been dealing with for years now.

Before Calum can tell him just how unfair it is, Luke’s adding on, “I’m done with you, Cal. I can’t do this with you anymore. When you decide that you’re ready to get over yourself, you can come find me.”

Luke turns, grabbing his duffel bag from off the floor and slinging it over his shoulder angrily. He starts towards the gym door without even a glance back, and when Calum follows his friend’s retreating figure, he notices how the blond passes right by Michael without so much as some eye contact.

Michael, who’s still standing there with his own bag in hand and looking completely confused. Michael, who needs _Luke_ here if he’s going to be getting _any_ hand to hand practice in today. But Luke doesn’t look like he intends to stay today; not for anything. Not for Michael, and especially not for Calum.

“Wait, Luke.” Calum calls out, and he’s relieved when Luke pauses, turning slightly to give Calum a look that tells him to continue. “Luke, you can’t. You can’t just _go_. Michael, he needs—”

“He needs someone to fight him?” Luke interrupts before scoffing again, loudly. “Grow a pair and do it your damn self, Calum, because I’m done. I’ve told you time and time again that he could learn a lot from a fighter like you. Or, at least, the fighter you _used_ to be.”

It takes everything Calum’s got in him not to collapse at those words, his knees wobbling slightly and head going foggy. This is the way he’d gotten last night after watching the tape, all dazed and overcome with it.

What makes it all feel almost _worse_ is that Michael’s right there. Michael’s heard all of it.

Just as Luke reaches the gym door, he calls out, “Oh, and lay off the pills, would you? You haven’t needed them for ages.” His hand is resting on the handle, and he’s hovering in the archway like he could be convinced to stay if only Calum would beg him to. The blond sounds remorseful, so _saddened_ , when he says, “There _is_ no pain, kid. It’s all in your fucking head.”

With that, Luke slips out the door, and the loud crash of it closing ricochets around the drafty gym, making Calum cringe. Michael doesn’t seem fazed by it, but Calum’s come to learn that not much rattles him.

Calum, on the other hand, has never felt more lost and confused in his _life_. Luke’s parting words don't make _sense_. There’s no _way_ Luke could know his medical business, even _if_ his accusations were true. Luke can't feel what Calum does, Luke doesn't _know_.

Calum stands glued to his spot for several long moments, and then his brain seems to finally reconnect with the muscles of his body. He gives Michael a quick glance before he takes off in the direction of the locker room.

He grits his teeth when he hears Michael take off right after him.

“You used to fight? Like, _professionally_?” Michael asks excitedly as soon as he pushes the locker room door back open before it can even properly latch shut. Calum’s already leaned up against his locker, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to calm himself down, and Michael’s questioning only irks him further.

“You should go home, Michael.” Calum says in lieu of an answer. Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t suffice for Michael, and he merely comes closer to where Calum’s trying not to fall the fuck over with physical and mental exhaustion. “I’ll find someone to spar you by tomorrow, I promise.”

He feels Michael lean back against one of the lockers across from him, and Calum peels his eyes open slightly to see the boy giving him a soft smile. “Why don’t _you_ do it?”

Calum tenses, doesn’t even consider it before he spits, “ _No_.”

Calum almost wishes he’d been more of an asshole to Michael in the past couple weeks, that he hadn’t been so focused on making nice with the guy, because then maybe Michael would actually _accept_ no for an answer, like he did in the beginning days of this gig.

Instead, Michael ignores him entirely. “But Hemmings said you used to fight. And by the sound of things, you were pretty damn good at it, too.”

He doesn’t need to tell Michael that he was better than good. That he was the _best_. But the smug look that Michael’s starting to give him makes Calum _want_ to, makes Calum want to track down every trophy or award he ever got in his career and rub them in Michael’s face.

But bragging won’t accomplish anything, and Calum knows it.

So rather than say any of that, Calum just sighs and says, “This seriously doesn’t concern you, Michael.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” Michael exclaims, flailing his hands slightly, desperately. “You’re supposed to be _teaching_ me, and we’re running out of weeks before the match. If you’re even _half_ as good as Hemmings seems to think you are, then—”

Calum snaps then, lifting his head fully so he can give Michael the glare he’s been tempted to since they entered the locker room. He cuts Michael off. “Luke doesn’t know anything about it, okay? You think he knows what I’m going through? You think _you_ know?”

It’s harsh, and more backlash than Michael probably deserves, especially since he hasn’t done a single thing wrong besides being near Calum when he’s so emotionally unstable. Classic wrong-place-wrong-time, just like Luke.

But Michael presses right on, because that’s the way he always handles Calum’s snide remarks. He just takes them in stride.

“I can help you, maybe.” Michael offers.

Truthfully, Calum doesn’t know how that could ever be. He hasn’t let anyone try to help him in _years_ ; he doesn’t imagine he’d let Michael in to do the job all of the sudden. And on top of that, he knows Michael has enough to deal with on his plate already.

Without thinking, he blurts, “Please. You can’t even help yourself.”

Apparently, it’s close enough to home that it actually takes Michael off guard. He falters for a second, staggering back like he can’t believe Calum would hit him with something like that, before righting himself moments later. Only this time, when he steps a few feet closer until there’s only inches between them, Michael doesn’t look determined like he had before. He looks _livid_ , pushed past the point of being friendly and civil.

Calum wishes he could take it back, that he could erase the past twelve hours from his memory altogether and go back to how things were at the bar, with Michael excitedly explaining the concepts of hockey to him while they sat too close, stared at each other for too many prolonged moments, when the only thing Calum was truly worried about was why Michael made him feel so _light_ in a world full of so much darkness.

Michael hisses, “At least I don’t have to rely on a _pill_ to get through my day.”

Calum winces, closing his eyes and shaking his head as soon as Michael’s said the words. It’s the worst, because he _knows_ that it’s true. He knows, and yet he has such a hard time convincing himself that that’s the _wrong_ way to be handling his pain. He’s _surviving_ , but he’s not _healing_.

He hates that Michael sees right through him so fucking effortlessly.

“You don’t know anything, Michael.” Calum says quietly, defensively. He’s pretty sure Michael’s only able to hear him because of the fact that he’s already standing so close.

Michael sighs, like Calum’s quick rush to deflect Michael’s accusation is enough to confirm whatever suspicions the fighter may have had about him. He sounds saddened, as if he was hoping that maybe he’d be wrong about whatever those suspicions were.

“Why are you so reluctant to let me help you? To let _anyone_?” Michael asks. “Don’t you want to get _better_?”

And really, Calum gets enough of that from Luke. He doesn’t need it from Michael, too. Michael, who’s not even supposed to _be_ his friend, no matter how many butterflies Calum gets whenever the bastard stares at him with his eyes looking all soft and gentle.

“It doesn’t matter. It was years ago.” Calum says. “Now seriously, Clifford, just go home. I’ll have a new partner for you by tomorrow, just like I said.”

Michael frowns, but he backs up, clearly picking up on Calum’s discomfort. “Don’t be like this, okay? We’ve all been fucked up a time or two. It’s part of being a fighter! I know what it’s like.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing against Calum’s wrist, and suddenly Calum feels hot, like he’s on fire. He relishes in the touch, wishes that it and the feeling it gives him could last forever.

“I was unconscious for _five days_ , Michael.” Calum confesses, closing his eyes and feeling _cold_ when Michael draws his hand back in shock. He resists the urge to reach out and pull Michael back in, keep him so close that the fire the boy ignites in him never goes out for another second.  “You ever been hit so hard the doctors are scared you won’t ever wake up?” Michael’s speechless, and Calum sighs. “No? Then you _wouldn’t_ know what it’s like, now, would you?”

Michael’s eyes are filled with sympathy, but Calum can’t stand the sight of that right now. He needs to be somewhere else entirely, needs to wind down in a place where no one can bother him.

So he quickly turns around, packing up his duffel bag before he heads for the locker room door without so much as another glance back.

(If he’d spared one, he would’ve found Michael staring after him, mouth slightly agape and a sincere apology hanging on his tongue.)

*******

He’s driving too fast. It’s surprising, really, that he’s going so many miles per hour over the speed limit down the 101 and hasn’t been pulled over yet. His exit is coming up, he’s pretty sure, but he’s already in the furthest lane from it, and there’s no way he’ll make it across three entire lanes in the few seconds he has with this level of traffic. So, thanks to his poor attention span and preoccupied brain, Calum decides he’ll keep going, catch the next exit home.

Only he doesn’t catch that one either. Or the next one.

He keeps going, like he knows exactly where he wants to go without the slightest clue on how to get there. It’s like muscle memory when he finally pulls off the highway and onto familiar surface streets that are nowhere near his apartment complex.

With his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel, Calum finally turns into a neighborhood he suddenly remembers clear as day, and he can’t believe that his upset, exhausted mind brought him here without him consciously realizing it.

He pulls up in front of the small house, surprisingly relieved to see the same old car parked out front that tells him the person he remembers living here is indeed home. It doesn’t even require a several-minute-long internal debate like it usually does for him, only takes swallowing back a painkiller that Luke’s words from earlier have him second guessing the effectiveness of before Calum’s turning off the ignition, exiting his car and heading up the brick walkway. The garden looks different, more loved and cared for, but Calum supposes a lot more than just a garden can change in three years.

With suddenly derailed confidence, Calum raises a shaky hand and knocks on the front door. He instantly hears some movement inside the house—and it’s definitely a couple pairs of feet shuffling across the floor this time, not just the one set that he remembers dwelling in the residence three years ago.

A few seconds later, he hears the door unlocking, and when it swings open, he realizes there must be tears in his eyes, because his old manager has never looked quite so blurry and foggy before, in all of the years that Calum’s known her.

Poxleitner only looks mildly shocked to see him, a soft smile overtaking her face as she kicks the door open the rest of the way. “Calum Hood. It’s been a long time. You’ve been deleting my voicemails, haven't you?”

Calum lets out an exasperated, watery laugh, and the very second Valerie opens her arms, Calum collapses into her. She’s so petite, at least six inches or so shorter than Calum, but he feels so _small_ , so vulnerable allowing himself to be held and comforted like this.

He doesn’t think there’s a better person in the world for him to have come to right now. She’s the only person he trusts to see him like this.

With his face still buried in her hair, he says, “I’m ready to talk about what happened that night. I think it’s time to talk about it.”

Valerie lets him inside without a single question, just steps to the side once he’s decided he’s done embracing her and waves him on in like she always did back in the day.

Too much time has passed between now and the last time Calum so much as saw his old manager. Back then, she’d barely moved into her house, and the place was littered with moving boxes and makeshift furniture. Now, it’s decorated with fully coordinated living room, dining room and kitchen sets, and not a thing appears to be out of place.

Except for the small, pink and plastic teacup he accidentally steps on before he’s even a few feet into the house. It crunches horribly, undeniably cracked under his tennis shoe, and he starts apologizing before he’s even moved his foot away to assess the damage.

“No problem.” She assures him, bending down and scooping up the broken toy before she sets it on the table in the entryway. “I knew I probably missed one. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to keep track of a two year old’s Playskool pieces.” She chuckles to herself fondly, probably half expecting Calum to get it and join in.

But Calum doesn’t get it, because he’s still hung up on the fact that an apparent _two year old_ has toys scattered around his manager’s living room. He thinks back to when he’d been standing at the door, when he’d heard more than just Valerie’s footsteps coming towards him. And just like that, a metaphorical light bulb goes on in his head.

“Oh my god.” Calum gasps in surprise, mouth agape as he starts looking around his immediate vicinity for the supposed child. Valerie just laughs at him again, her smile lines as apparent as he always remembers them being. Her smiles were always so _radiant_ , so _blinding_. “You had a _baby_ , Val?”

She nods, blushing slightly. “Almost two years ago.” She rolls her eyes fondly when Calum reaches for her left hand, jaw dropping yet again when he sees the giant rock on her ring finger. After snatching her hand back as if she’s embarrassed by the attention (Calum can tell she’d actually _love_ to keep showing it off), she continues. “Got engaged a few months after, um. After you quit.”

Calum winces, but it’s not as bad as it probably would have been if anybody else had pointed it out to him. Somehow, when Valerie says things like that, the sting isn’t so harsh. It’s all a bit more manageable with her.

He doesn’t wince because of the mention of him quitting the league, either. Instead, it’s because of how evident she’s made it about how much time has passed since Calum last allowed himself to see her, and vice versa. So much time has passed that Valerie has fallen in _love_ , committed to a marriage, and had a _child_.

And Calum’s missed out on _every_ fucking part of it. She was his best friend, his big sister when Mali couldn’t be there. His confidant, and Calum wasn’t there to see it when life finally started happening for her. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive himself for a lot of things, but _especially_ for that. For cutting himself out of Valerie’s entire life when she never did a thing wrong by him to deserve being treated that way.

“Hey.” She whispers suddenly, reaching up and swiping under his eye with her thumb. He feels it when the dampness smears across his cheek, and he pulls back, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hands. He hadn’t felt himself tearing up, and it feels so much more humiliating to be crying _now_ than it had when he was crying into her shoulder not even a few minutes ago. “Hey, kiddo, it’s alright.”

With his voice trembling and watery, he teases, “Quit calling me kiddo. I’m only three years younger than you.”

It’s an incredibly old joke, but she clearly still remembers it, seeing as her eyes crinkle at the corners with the force of her grin. She pats his cheek twice, reassuring him.

“Want some coffee?” Valerie offers, looking back over her shoulder as she starts for the kitchen.

Calum shakes his head. “Just water would be great.”

She nods affirmatively before she disappears into the kitchen, and Calum takes it upon himself to go ahead and get comfortable. He makes sure there aren’t any more toys in his path as he walks, and then double checks the seat of the couch before he sits down. The TV is playing some kids movie, he thinks, though Calum can’t hear any of the dialogue since Valerie must have muted it before answering him at the door.

“Where’s the evil spawn?” Calum jokes casually, and smirks when he hears Valerie’s familiar bellow of laughter from the other room.

“She’s probably hiding in her room.” Valerie explains, reemerging from the kitchen with two glasses of water. Calum grabs two coasters from the stack on the coffee table, sliding them into place just before she sets the glasses down on them. “Always seems to whenever someone comes to the door. She’ll be around in a bit, I’m sure.”

Calum smiles softly at the thought of a tiny human he hasn’t even met, and yet is so incredibly enamored with already. He can’t believe there’s a second Valerie roaming the Earth.

Valerie sits down in one of the chairs opposite the couch Calum has claimed, crossing her slender legs. She grabs her own glass, taking a sip before she says, “You said you were ready to talk about what happened that night. Did you mean that?”

Calum sighs, looking down at his hands. He knew the subject would eventually come back up, especially since he showed up on her doorstep, groveling and whimpering about how he was ready to talk. In retrospect, he isn’t really sure how much he’d actually wanted to do that.

In spite of that, Calum says, “Yeah. Yeah, I think I need to. Some stuff’s come up in the last few weeks, and, um.” He sighs, exhaling slowly. “I watched the tape?”

Valerie levels him with a careful stare. “And how was that?”

Calum bites on his bottom lip, thinking it over. He tries to come up with a word that somehow encompasses all the horror, panic, and simultaneous _rage_ he’d felt after watching the ten minute video from three years ago. Nothing seems quite right—nothing that can be vocalized really touches on the crippling weight he’d felt the whole time he watched himself onscreen.

“Not so good.” He says simply.

Valerie nods slowly, tracing her index finger over the outer rim of her glass. Calum can see the small tattoo on the inside of the digit, remembers when she’d walked right into a random tattoo shop on their day off in a city they didn't truly know and told the artist the three words she wanted inked there. He feels a wave of pleasant nostalgia gently wash over him at the memory, which is welcome, since he sort of feels like he’s been drowning since he got home last night.

“I took a job.” He admits suddenly. He hadn’t necessarily been planning on telling her that, but it comes out anyway. It's hard to keep secrets from Valerie, seemingly even when she hasn't prompted him for any information.

She looks mildly surprised, one of her dark eyebrows shooting up before she hums. “Really? What kind of job?”

Calum chuckles, realizing how ridiculous it’s probably going to sound.”I’m coaching someone? For Middleweights.” Valerie’s jaw drops slightly, and she starts to smile in that way Calum knows is going to quickly lead into her telling him how fantastic that news is, how _proud_ of him she is. So he cuts her off before she can tell him something he doesn’t deserve. “Only, not really. Luke’s been the one sparring him in the cage.”

Valerie frowns, but it looks more like she’s confused by the news than she is disappointed in Calum. “Hemmings is doing the coaching _for_ you? That doesn't sound—”

Calum grumbles. “Yeah. I know it’s not, like, ideal. But Mikey’s manager asked for me, and Luke offered to do all the actual dirty work involved if I agreed to take the job. It’s what works for me, Val. I had to.”

His old manager’s eyes light up then, and she goes from looking concerned to looking mischievous. Calum leans back in his seat slightly, eyebrows furrowed.

“Who’s _Mikey_?” Valerie asks, the lilt to her voice telling Calum she may not know who the guy is _specifically_ , but because Calum slipped up with the nickname, she knows exactly what Michael must _mean_ to him.

Calum rolls his eyes, feeling his cheeks heating up. “Michael Clifford. The fighter I’m training. S’not important.”

Valerie shakes her head, a small smirk on her face. “I’m inclined to disagree. I think that he seems to be _very_ important. Especially to you.” She lets Calum stew in his own discomfort and embarrassment for several agonizing moments, before she finally takes pity on him, setting her glass back down and leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “Does he know? About the tape?”

Calum shrugs, suddenly becoming very interested in the stitching of Valerie’s sofa cushion. He traces his finger over the fabric, wondering if maybe she’ll happen to forget that she even asked him anything if he's silent for long enough. But she doesn’t forget, of course, and when Calum chances a glance up, she’s still watching him expectantly.

“No.” Calum sighs. “I mean, he knows _something_ happened. Knows the vague bits, at the very least, but his manager kept the whole story hidden from him. The only reason he even knows as much as he does is because Luke blew up in front of him, started bitching at me about how I’m not the fighter I used to be right before he fuckin’ quit on me. Only _then_ did Mike ask some questions, but I told him to butt out.” Calum groans, burying his face in his hands. “God, I told him I’d find him a new training partner by _tomorrow_. I'm _fucked_ , Val.”

He hears Valerie sigh softly, feels the shift in the room when she gets up from her armchair and crosses the living room to sit on the couch beside him. He tries to fight the urge to just fall into her again, since it’s so effortless to find comfort that way.

Her fingers slide through his dense curls, scratching at his scalp lightly in that way his mother and older sister always used to do when he was younger. Valerie’s never done it before, but he supposes she must’ve developed a knack for all things motherhood ever since her baby was born.

“Don’t worry about finding a fighter. I’ve got one you can borrow.” She says gently. Calum snaps his head up, looking at her with shock and awe, but she shakes her head before he can tell her that she doesn’t owe him any favors. “But you _have_ to apologize to this Michael boy. You can’t just quit on him, or he won’t trust you anymore. Don’t you think maybe he deserves to hear your story by now? All things considered?”

He sighs, wondering when the hell things in life started to get so _hard_.

“Look,” Valerie adds, “I don’t know him. And I don’t know what you two have. But it sounds like he means something a whole lot more to you than you want to admit.”

Calum rolls his eyes. “You don’t know anything about that.”

Valerie chuckles. “Maybe not. But I know _you_. And I know that you aren’t all red and your hands aren’t all clammy just because it’s summertime and it’s warm out.”

Calum can’t help it when he cracks a smile, looking away from Valerie’s insistent eyes as soon as possible. He attempts to ignore it when she bumps his shoulder with her own.

“I hate you.” He grumbles.

“You adore me.” Valerie corrects, adjusting her dark hair over to the opposite side so that she can rest her head on Calum’s shoulder. He can tell without even looking that she’s beaming with pride and victory.

“Yeah.” He agrees fondly, patting her knee once. She doesn’t say anything else afterwards, so silent Calum’s almost afraid she’s somehow fallen asleep in the several seconds that have passed.

More than anything, though, he remembers being backstage before fights, remembers sitting on the couch like this with his right-hand woman, listening to her occasional words of encouragement as he worked on evening out his breathing before he had to go out into the cage. She always made him so calm, and _god_ , he’s missed her so much more than he’d allowed himself to realize.

Quietly, he whispers, “I’m sorry I let you down, Val.”

He doesn’t specify what he means, but he knows Valerie understands that he’s talking about what happened all those years ago, without having to ask for clarification.

She pulls her head back up, turning to him with a confused expression. “Oh, honey, you didn’t let me down.” She reaches a hand up to cup his cheek reassuringly. “Not in a million years.”

Calum frowns. “You forgive me?”

He’s shocked, honestly. He never would’ve expected Valerie to completely overlook all the wrong he’s done by her, despite the fact that she’s always been an easygoing friend. There are some things Calum’s sure are unforgivable. He’d assumed dropping your career, family, and closest friends all of the sudden would’ve been completely justified reasons to never forgive someone.

But Valerie just shakes her head, smiling softly, like she can’t believe Calum ever thought she _wouldn’t_ forgive him. “Sweetheart, what’s there to forgive? You didn’t do anything _wrong_.”

Calum snorts. He’s about to tell her all the things he’s managed to accomplish in the last three years that would qualify as wrong, but she puts her hand up, silencing him before he can even speak.

“You got hurt, Cal. You got hurt, and you got _scared_. What could you have possibly done wrong in that scenario? Been a _human_ _being_?” She laughs lightly, like she can’t even believe how absurd the concept is, and Calum shrugs. He doesn’t say anything in response, just watches the ice as it shifts around in his glass, until Valerie speaks up again. “Don’t apologize to _me_ , kiddo, because I’m always gonna be right here for you. This Michael guy, on the other hand, might not be.”

Calum sighs, but nods, recognizing what Valerie’s hinting at. When she smiles proudly and gives an encouraging kiss to his temple, he pretends to gag, but he can’t deny the rush of warmth and comfort the gesture brings him. He needed this visit.

With Valerie back on his side, he feels a little bit stronger.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry omg time really got away from me today so I know this is a late update and maybe ao3 will push this down so none of you will see it until next week but HERE WE ARE

It takes a lot longer to get out of bed the next morning. Seemingly no amount of self pep talking can force him to make the effort, and the knowledge that his prescription bottle full of pills is apparently unnecessary and unable to do anything to mask the pain flaring up in his shoulder isn’t exactly enticing, either. That whole thing is an issue all its own, one that Calum still doesn't particularly want to deal with. Right now, he'd just be content to just stay in bed for the rest of his life.

But he can’t—he _knows_ he can’t, because Michael deserves better. Michael deserves more than the angry way Calum had stormed out on him the previous afternoon. Michael deserves answers, or at the very least, an explanation. And as much as Calum imagines it’ll probably kill him to give one, he’d feel a lot worse inside if he _never_ gave a reason for his awful behavior. Michael’s been so honest with him in the past few weeks; it’s probably time that Calum reciprocated.

And so he drags himself out of bed. He makes himself rinse off the gross, negative feelings he’s having under the spray of a hot shower, and he forces himself to drive down to the gym, despite how much his body is screaming for him not to.

He’s too tired of keeping secrets.

*******

When Calum enters through the gym’s back door, Michael’s already getting in the zone. He’s standing beside the cage steps, crossing one of his arms over the other as he stretches out the muscles, and he must not register it when Calum walks in, since he doesn’t so much as glance over.

Calum clears his throat, loud in the otherwise silent gym, and Michael startles, turning his head to watch when Calum approaches him cautiously. He doesn’t look as angry as Calum was expecting he would, but Calum doesn’t thank anybody for that just yet. He knows firsthand how emotionless Michael can make himself seem, despite how much raw feeling may be burning inside him.

“Hey.” Michael says once Calum’s only a few yards away. He swings his arms out, shaking them a bit, before he crosses them again the opposite way. “I was worried about you.”

Of all the things Calum was expecting Michael to throw at him, it surely wasn’t something as genuine as _I was worried about you_ , and it sure as hell wasn’t something as soft and calmly spoken. He was anticipating something angrier, more bitter. Something he actually _deserved_.

“I’m—” Calum sputters, taken aback. “Really? Why?”

Michael snorts fondly, rolling his eyes. “Because you were a mess when you left yesterday?” He says, like it’s obvious. As if he ever should have spent even a single second worrying over Calum. “You were obviously going through some shit. I was worried that with you and Hemmings butting heads, you wouldn’t have anyone to talk to. Since you aren’t talking to your family, or whatever.” He adds the last bit more sheepishly, clearly unsure if bringing Calum’s family into the situation is overstepping.

Calum thinks that normally, it would be, had anyone _other_ than Michael been the one to bring it up.

Calum nods slowly, processing Michael’s words. “Yeah. I, um. I got in contact with someone. Sort of like family.” He clears his throat again, his voice suddenly going scratchy and rough. “They told me I should come back here and explain myself to you.”

Michael frowns, dropping his arms to his sides before he reaches for his wrap that’s sitting on one of the cage steps. He uncoils it, preparing to fasten it around one of his hands.

“You don’t owe me anything.” Michael says, but it doesn’t sound harsh. It sounds like something a _friend_ might say—that Calum doesn’t need to explain himself if he’s not comfortable doing so, because Michael won’t hold it against him.

Calum thinks that sentiment is actually what _reassures_ him in making his confession.

“I do, though. Owe you, I mean.” Calum whispers, scuffing the soles of one of his sneakers against the floor. “I dumped a lot on you yesterday, but I didn’t _explain_ any of it. I didn’t tell you _why_ I couldn’t coach you properly. I didn’t tell you how I got hurt. And, like, you matter to me. You deserve better than that. So, if you’d allow me, I’d like to explain myself.”

Michael stops wrapping his hand, giving Calum his undivided attention, green eyes wide with interest that he’d probably deny if Calum took the time to point it out.

“Yeah.” The fighter murmurs. “Yeah, that’d be alright.”

Calum nods carefully, inhaling sharply and willing his heart to slow down a bit. He motions towards the bench to his left, thinking it’d probably be easier on himself if he was sitting down for this, and Michael shrugs his agreement to Calum’s silent request before he's following Calum over to the seat. Michael sits down beside Calum on the bench, turning his body towards him to give Calum the reassurance that he’s listening intently. Calum almost wishes he wasn’t looking at all—he’d probably be less nervous if that was the case. Maybe. “I used to fight.” Calum starts, simply. When Michael just gives him a soft snort as if to say that much is obvious, he continues. “I mean, like. Like you and Luke do. Professionally.”

He pauses for a moment to collect himself, but it ends up being longer than the few seconds he'd originally intended. When he's been sitting there in silence for nearly half a minute, Michael says, “Right, okay,” and it's a simple enough press for him to continue that it snaps Calum back into reality. “I joined when I was your age—twenty one and barely even legal for the UFC. Luke joined around the same time, and _god_ ,” Calum sighs, remembering, “we had so much damn _fun_ together that first year. Living out on our own, playing the sport we loved. I got picked up by a manager my first two months in, and I swore nothing was ever gonna ruin how fucking happy I was those first three years. I was in it for the long haul.”

Michael makes a noise of discontent, and when Calum spares a glance over at him, he finds the fighter frowning deeply. He hates the way the expression looks on Michael.

“What changed, then?” Michael wonders, voice soft and free of pressure. He’s trying to give Calum gentle nudges, like he must know how difficult it is for Calum to talk about his story. Calum’s chest warms up impossibly with how _sweet_ Michael can allow himself to be whenever he really wants to.

Calum shrugs, thinking back to that night three summers ago, in a sold out arena for what was supposed to be one of the greatest fights of the season. Two undefeated fighters going head to head—Calum remembers all the hype and advertising there had been on the sports networks for _weeks_ leading up to the event.

He remembers how _nervous_ he had been, despite the cockiness and self assuredness he made sure to exude during weigh-ins and promos. It had taken Valerie an hour to calm him down in the back room the night of the fight, watching as he paced back and forth, picking at the wrapping on his hands the whole time. She had assured him he’d be fine, that it’d be just like any other fight. That he would _win_ and come out of it undefeated just like he always did. And her words had worked—he’d walked into the ring that night with all of the confidence he usually had.

But just ten minutes later, he was slipping in and out of consciousness, fighting to keep sight of Valerie as she hovered above him, soft hands cupping his face to keep his head still. He remembers how _loud_ it had been, inside his own head as well as throughout the arena. He remembers thinking that in all his years of fighting and sparring, he’d never been hit that hard, or felt pain that immense.

He remembers waking up in the hospital nearly a week later, too afraid to ask questions and even more terrified of _ever_ stepping into a ring again.

He must be silent for too long, because suddenly there’s a pale hand on his knee, squeezing just enough to be felt, and Calum feels his heart speed up (and he doesn’t think it has anything to do with the memories, this time).

“Calum?” Michael whispers, and Calum startles at the sound of the man’s voice. It sounds harsh, somehow, loud in a room that had gone incredibly quiet.

Calum clears his throat. “It was a big match. The biggest of my season, _and_ Philippou’s. Both undefeated, both in the prime of our careers. It was gonna be _huge_.” He pauses, inhaling a shaky breath, and Michael’s thumb starts absently stroking the exposed skin of Calum’s knee. “I also thought it was going to be civil. A good fight, of course, so not _easy_ , but. Civil, at least.”

Michael nods slowly, the only sounds coming from him being quiet breaths and soft noises of acknowledgement.

“It wasn’t?” Michael concludes.

“Not even a little bit.” Calum huffs, a defeated sort of sound, and he shakes his head. “I don’t know if it was some kind of personal vendetta. We’d never even fought before. He’d never done it to anybody else, either—gone crazy like that, I mean. He just...I was already down, Mikey. I was _losing_ _anyway_. And he just—he kept on going. Took _three_ refs to pull him off of me—I didn’t even _know_ about that part until I finally watched the tape of it.”

Michael makes a weak noise, almost a _whimper_ , and Calum feels it more than sees it when the fighter shifts his whole body closer, sliding over an inch or so on the bench. It’s strange, how much safer and more comfortable he feels just knowing that Michael is right next to him.

“Cal,” Michael breathes, the nickname light on his tongue. Calum’s heart skips a little, and he wills it to settle down, to stop being so fucking _ridiculous_.

“They were all so scared about it, even after I woke up. The officials, I mean. Valerie, my manager, she told me they debated putting me in, like, witness protection, or something.” Calum shudders a little, and he’s not entirely sure if it’s because of the memory, or because of the way he can sort of feel Michael’s breath fanning across his cheek ever so lightly. “He’s not allowed to fight UFC anymore. I know that much. Banned for life, and he might’ve done jail time, but they never told me for sure and I never actually had the guts to find out.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, willing his emotions to get in check, but it’s hard to hold back the couple tears that are determined to fall when Michael uses his free hand to reach up and stroke his cheek, like he can’t physically not be doing it for even another second. Calum’s slightly put off by the timing, by the _setting_ , but it feels wrong _not_ to look up at Michael in that moment.

So he does look up, and he makes a wounded noise when he sees the way Michael’s looking at him, like Calum is the only thing in the world. Calum gets that, though. He sort of feels like nothing really exists outside of this gym, outside of this little bubble he and Michael have seemingly created around them.

“You’re brave.” Is all Michael says, before he lets go of Calum’s knee and brings that hand up to caress the other side of his face, too. Calum finds it effortless to just close his eyes, then, to relax into Michael’s touch and let the warmth of the man’s skin settle him back down from where he’d worked himself up so much.

“Not really.” Calum disagrees, and without even opening his eyes he can feel how Michael shakes his head.

“You are.” He insists. “You know how many people would’ve just given up after that? After losing everything? I know I would have.”

Calum scoffs, opening his eyes to give Michael a disgruntled look. He doesn’t want to, but he leans back until Michael’s no longer touching his face. “I _did_ give up, Michael. I quit the league. I lost my family, my best friends. I gave up on _everything_. That’s not fucking _brave_.”

Michael shakes his head. “But you came _back_. Whether it was for yourself, or for Luke, or even for _me_ , you _came_ _back_. You’re talking about what happened to you. And that, Calum, _that’s_ fucking brave.”

Of course, it’s not like Michael’s insistence on the matter suddenly changes Calum’s mind. It doesn’t suddenly _convince_ him that he’s actually been handling this whole thing incredibly well the entire time. Because he knows that’s not the case.

But Michael’s opinion on the matter does wonders on making Calum feel like maybe he’s not _entirely_ selfish. Like maybe he hasn’t made mistakes that are as dire and unfixable as Calum’s made them out to be. Like maybe Ashley, Luke, Valerie, and even _Ashton_ weren’t so wrong about how Calum hasn’t thrown every single good thing away forever.

He’s still made some mistakes, but the way Michael’s looking at him right now makes Calum wonder if maybe he’s not necessarily a bad person because of them.

“Thank you.” Calum murmurs.

It’s not all that specific, but Michael seems to pick up on everything those two little words are addressing, because the man just smiles softly. He leans forward, and Calum’s not sure what to expect, but he knows for certain that he isn’t anticipating Michael brushing his lips against Calum’s forehead, puckering against the skin in the softest of kisses Calum’s ever experienced, before he’s pulling away again and leaving Calum to wonder if it ever even happened. The only evidence that it did is the sudden blush on Michael’s cheeks, a soft pink that compliments the fading red in his hair, and the shortness of breath Calum finds himself experiencing.

“You...you kissed me.” Calum observes, and it sounds stupidly like a question.

Michael bites down on his lower lip, and Calum can’t help himself when he follows the movement with his eyes. He can tell that Michael notices, despite how discreet he tries to be about it, but Michael doesn’t draw attention to it.

“I did.” Michael nods. “I _really_ wanted to kiss you that night at the bar, after I told you about my mom. Didn’t seem like the right time, though.”

Calum swears his heart completely stops, then, because even though it was only a couple nights ago, he can’t believe he could’ve had Michael since the _bar_. He remembers how close they’d sat that night, how hot his skin had felt whenever Michael incidentally brushed up against him. How they’d kept staring at one another like they _knew_ what they wanted, but were too terrified that maybe they couldn’t have it.

“I know.” Calum says, looking down at Michael’s mouth again, more obviously this time. Michael picks up on it again, and in retaliation, the fighter sweeps his tongue out to gloss over his bottom lip, wetting it just slightly. “I could tell.”

Michael hums, bringing his hand up to cup Calum’s jaw in his palm again, more bravely this time, like he knows for a fact that Calum won’t dare to flinch away.

He’s right.

Calum’s breath comes more shakily, the familiar burn taking over his body, and he prays that he never has to go another day of his life without this feeling. He’s finding that he’s getting a little too used to it.

“Would you have been angry?” Michael questions, his thumb skirting dangerously close to Calum’s mouth, threatening to catch on the man’s plump lower lip, to pull on it ever so slightly. “If I had kissed you, I mean?”

Calum doesn’t need to take any time before he answers. “No. Surprised, maybe, but not angry.”

Michael looks pleased with himself, but the blush on his face and neck only keeps growing, so he must be more flattered than smug. Calum finds it endearing.

“Would you be angry if I kissed you now?” Michael asks lowly, leaning in slightly, until his breath is mingling with Calum’s, and Calum’s head spins so fucking fast he’s momentarily terrified that he might black out with blissful dizziness.

Boldly, Calum says, “Why don’t you try it and find out?”

Michael chuckles, but he doesn’t make Calum wait for more than a second before he’s pressing their lips together, and Calum swears he feels fireworks lighting up in his fingers, his toes. It overtakes him, the instant _shock_ that kissing Michael sends pulsing throughout his entire body, and Calum feels like he’s outside of himself when he reaches out, desperately clawing at Michael’s shirt like he’s scared Michael will just suddenly disappear, or something.

It’s been ages since Calum’s been kissed, but even before, Calum distinctly remembers that it was never _anything_ like this. This instant desperation he feels, the sudden reassurance that everything is _right_ in the world. That part of kissing is so _new_ to him, so unique to _Michael_. It’s only been seconds, and Calum’s already addicted, already craving more when he knows it can’t possibly last forever.

Michael doesn’t seem to mind the way Calum’s pawing at him, chasing the feeling Michael brings him as if he’ll die without it. The fighter only grabs him harder, the fabric of the wrapping on his hands rough where it’s rubbing against Calum’s jaw.

He’s running out of air, and that’s the only reason Calum pulls back for a moment. He gasps rapidly, staring at Michael with slightly widened eyes, and Michael looks right back with nothing but awe and wonder on his face, like he can’t believe this is happening as much as Calum can’t.

Apparently, that’s all the time Michael is able to allow for recuperating, since he slides his hand on Calum’s cheek around to yank him closer again by the back of the brown boy’s neck. Calum can feel Michael’s fingers tangling in his hair, and he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat before he’s tilting his head and parting his lips, eager to deepen it. Michael seems just as desperate to reciprocate, as he reaches out with his free hand to dig his fingers into Calum’s waist, almost bruising.

“I don’t think this is what I’m paying you for, Hood.”

Calum reels back, embarrassingly shocked by Ashton’s abrupt appearance in the gym. Michael doesn’t seem to be offended by Calum’s actions, looking just as lost and surprised at his manager’s sudden presence as Calum feels. They’d both clearly been so caught up in it, so oblivious, that they must not have heard the creaking of the back door that Ashton had to have come in through.

“Sorry.” Calum mumbles halfheartedly, and he feels his skin flushing as he glances over at Ashton apologetically.

Ashton doesn’t look mad, though. Instead, he’s giving Calum this little half smile, like he knows something more than he’s letting on, and Calum decides to interpret that as meaning there was no real heat behind the manager’s previous words. Nervously, Calum smiles back at him, and Ashton just throws him a wink.

Calum swivels a bit to look at Michael, to maybe gauge his reaction to his own manager’s obvious teasing, but the fighter just grins, leaning in to steal one more quick kiss from Calum’s lips before he’s shooting up off the bench and towards the punching bags.

Ashton doesn’t say anything else about what he’d walked in on for the rest of the morning, and Calum’s far too mortified at being caught to bring it up himself.

*******

For the first time in a hell of a long time, Calum has a spring in his step. What’s even wilder is the fact that he still has said spring in his step despite that he’s entirely aware of the fact that he’s actively walking into Perrie’s office. Nobody’s even forcing him, or anything. He’s just. _Going_.

Whatever this calm, somewhat relieved feeling that’s suddenly come over him is, Calum’s having a hard time complaining about it. It’s nice, being so much _lighter_ as he goes about his day. He’s pretty sure he has Michael to thank for at least some of that, considering the butterflies that come to his stomach every time he thinks back to that morning at the gym.

When he swings open the door to the small gym in Perrie’s office, he’s not surprised to see the woman already waiting for him. It’s empty again with the exception of the two of them, just like it was the last visit, and Calum’s pretty convinced this time that she and Ashton have arranged for it to be that way on purpose.

“Calum!” Perrie greets, tucking her hair back behind her ears before placing her hands on her hips. “You look great! How’re you feeling?”

Calum shrugs, continuing across the gym to the small station Perrie’s set up for them this afternoon. He eyes the elastic bands suspiciously, and his shoulder gives an almighty throb at the phantom sensation of the soreness he’d felt after last time. It puts a slight damper on his otherwise decent mood.

“As good as I can.” Calum answers honestly, sitting down on one of the massage tables near the far wall when Perrie motions for him to. She chuckles at his response, sweeping her hair back into her signature ponytail before she follows Calum to the table, standing behind him.

He nearly jumps out of his own skin when he feels her small hands starting to rub at his shoulder, skilled fingers manipulating the muscles in a way that makes Calum grit his teeth. It’s only a few steps below unbearable, but he forces himself to stick with it, to let Perrie do her job.

“Well, you certainly _look_ happy.” Perrie observes simply, and when Calum snorts, like that’s an insane accusation, she digs her fingers in a little bit harder. It makes him yelp, and he can practically sense her teasing smirk without even turning around to see it. She pats his shoulder once as an apology before continuing on with her regular pressure.

“I mean,” Calum starts, focusing in on the floor like the small patterns in the carpet are suddenly incredibly interesting to him, “I guess I am. I think I am. Happi _er_ , at least.”

Perrie hums, taking a break from massaging the muscles to lift Calum’s arm up, rotating his shoulder that way. He winces, but it’s manageable.

“Sounds to me like you met someone.” Perrie states simply, and Calum finds himself smiling softly at the thoughts of Michael that Perrie’s words stir up inside him. Perrie’s definitely not far off—he hasn’t _just_ met Michael or anything, but he’s also only just started letting himself explore that whole relationship in a different way. So probably it’s close enough.

Still, he’s unfortunately too stoic for such things, so Calum tries to keep it lowkey when he jokes, “Oh, please. It’s not that.”

Perrie takes away her hands, then, slowly letting his arm drop back down to its usual position down at his side. He turns his head slightly, watching as she walks around the table so that they can be face to face. There’s a glimmer in her eyes that he can’t quite place, but as soon as she gives him a little half smirk, he realizes it’s the same twinkle _Ashton_ always gets in his own eyes, and he’s reminded all at once of just _who_ his therapist is.

Perrie, Ashton’s wife. Ashton, who literally _walked_ _in_ on him and Michael only days ago. And suddenly, Calum realizes there’s no way that Ashton _hasn’t_ gushed all the details out to his wife like they’re a pair of gossipy high schoolers. Perrie must know about it, she _has_ to.

That’s the only reason he’s _expecting_ it when Perrie crosses her arms and confirms his suspicions as she says, “You and Michael.”

Calum frowns. “Is it—is that, like... _bad_?” He doesn’t know why Perrie’s acceptance means so much to him all of the sudden, but. He knows from simple deduction that just by association, Michael must mean as much to her as he does to Ashton. It makes sense that she might be a little protective. It’s admirable, Calum decides.

Perrie’s eyes widen. “No! No, it’s good! God, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to sound all, like.” She shakes her head, chuckling a little bit at her inability to find words. Instead of trying the sentence again, she just sits down on the table beside Calum, reaching for his hand and taking it between both of her own easily. “I think it’s _great_. Michael is—he’s just...he’s been so _lonely_ ever since his mom started getting worse, y’know? And clearly whatever you two have got going on is _already_ helping _you_. Not fixing, maybe, but _helping_ , at least. So it’s good. I think it’s good.”

Calum bites down on his lip when he feels himself threatening to crack a smile. “We’re not, like. I don’t know. It was just one kiss.”

The blonde woman shrugs, but her blinding grin hardly falters. Instead, she squeezes Calum’s hand once, firmly, before she says, “Maybe that’s all it is right now. But I think there’s a lot more there than either of you realize yet.”

Calum’s chest warms at the prospect that maybe Perrie’s right, that there actually could be more to him and Michael than one desperate kiss in an equally desperate moment. He can’t help but think back to all the stolen glances Michael had given him the rest of that morning during his solo practice, whenever he thought Ashton might not catch him doing so. There _has_ to be more to it, with the way Michael was looking at him. _Looks_ at him.

He comes back to reality when Perrie lets go of his hand and hops down from the table. She’s still smiling, but she looks almost apologetic when she tells him, “Time to start.”

Calum groans like it’s a major inconvenience, but it’s mostly just to make Perrie laugh again, because he easily hops off the table and follows her over to the station without any arguing or discontent.


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a late update :/ hopefully my Thursdays stop being so wonky or else I may have to change the date lmao
> 
> Also I know this chapter is a little short but there's a couple pretty lengthy ones in the works!

Calum meets Valerie’s fiancé for the first time in a setting he wasn’t entirely expecting to. He’d anticipated, like, introducing himself to the guy over a couple of beers at Valerie’s place for dinner sometime in the near future, now that he’s actually talking to her on a regular basis yet again.

He wasn’t expecting for it to go down at seven in the morning in Ashley’s gym, where Michael has only just started his warm ups on the punching bag. But when Valerie had said she knew a fighter Calum could borrow for the purposes of replacing Luke for however long the blond decided he was done being a part of their arrangement, apparently she’d meant her fiancé. Who, by the way, she’d failed to mention was even _in_ the league.

His name is Beau, and he’s got a few inches on Calum, six-foot-something and covered in vibrant tattoos, the ink overtaking the entirety of one arm and slowly doing the same to the other. His dark hair is long enough that he’s tied it back into a bun, and he looks like he’s probably in the Middleweights. He’s not really more or less intimidating than Michael is, as his pleasant smile and friendly demeanor throw the vibe off slightly.

They exchange brief introductions before starting practice, which is when Beau informs Calum that Valerie had asked him to do this and how he hopes he’s cut out for the job. He doesn’t recognize Michael right away, and Michael doesn’t recognize Beau, either, which Calum actually supposes is _better_ , since that means neither of them will know the other’s style or potential reputations yet.

Watching Michael in the cage with someone other than Luke for the first time is bizarre, but already Calum can tell the kind of difference it’s going to make. Beau’s got _years_ of experience on Michael, probably on _both_ of them, and he’s able to take Michael to the ground a lot more quickly, effortlessly, and _frequently_ than Luke ever could. Calum can tell Michael’s thrown for a loop the first time it happens, and he almost laughs when Michael looks over at him with genuine surprise at being _beaten_ in his emerald eyes.

What’s different between Luke and Beau, too, is that Beau’s a lot better at vocalizing instruction, on making things clear. Leaps and bounds better at it than Luke, and probably even better than Calum would be. On more than one occasion, Calum has a hard time wrapping his head around why Ashton would ever have picked _him_ to coach Michael over _Beau_. Calum also spends a lot of time thinking about how this is the man his best friend—his almost _sister_ —is going to marry, and that’s enough food for thought that he zones out during the otherwise mindless practice between Michael and his new partner.

“Why’s Beau Bokan in my gym?” Calum hears suddenly, and he almost jumps out of his skin with the shock it causes him. With his heart pounding, he turns slightly to look over his shoulder, giving Ashley a glare for sneaking up on him that she simply brushes off with a dismissive wave.

Huffing, Calum turns back to the cage, where Michael has Beau in a loose hold that’s clearly for the purposes of demonstrating the technique Beau’s teaching him than for actually keeping anyone down.

“Luke quit, so.” Calum shrugs, motioning to the ring.

Ashley makes a noise of surprise before she steps up further, until she’s right beside him. “What? Luke _quit_?” Her eyebrows are furrowed, and when Calum glances over, her face reads with an expression that shows she likely doesn’t believe him. Or at the very least, she knows there’s more to it than that. Which.

“I didn’t really make it so easy for him.” Calum admits, before he shrugs again. It feels like all he _can_ do. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure he’ll be back, and besides, we’ve got Beau.”

Ashley nods slowly. “Beau’s great. One of the best in the league right now. I’ve wanted to meet him for awhile.” She pauses for a minute, eyes glued to the cage the same way Calum’s are, and he can tell she’s taking in all the skill and technique radiating off the men inside it, same as Calum is. It’s fascinating. “How’d you get an athlete like _him_ in here?”

Calum snorts. “It’s not as if your gyms aren’t renowned across the entire league, Ash. He’d have come to one of them eventually, regardless.”

“Fuck off.” His friend laughs, rolling her eyes and reaching out to punch his bicep. He smirks at her mild irritation. “Seriously. How’d you even meet him?”

Calum bites down on his lower lip, trying to be nonchalant when he confesses: “He and Valerie are engaged. She said I could borrow him. Probably just until Luke stops playing hooky.”

Ashley gasps softly, and Calum chuckles at the way his friend’s entire face lights up. “ _Valerie_? You talked to her?” When he nods, she excitedly adds, “Oh, Calum, that’s _wonderful_.” Calum feels the way his cheeks heat up slightly, and it’s not because he’s, like, _embarrassed_ , but because it’s kind of adorable how unabashedly _happy_ for him Ashley sounds. It makes his stomach do flips, knowing she’s proud of the slow progress he’s making.

“Yeah.” Calum agrees, albeit somewhat sheepishly. He smiles when Ashley pulls him into a quick hug, extending her arm up to ruffle his hair after she’s pulled away. He makes a face, like he’s going to complain about it, but she winks at him and heads back towards her office before Calum can say anything on the matter.

Huffing out a laugh, Calum crosses his arms and turns back to look at the cage, where Michael’s finally got Beau pinned, and by the look of effort on Beau’s face, it wasn’t for instructional purposes this time.

(Calum does his best to cover up his proud smirk, but he knows it’s useless. He’s too impressed by Michael for his own good.)

*******

Calum doesn’t talk to Michael until later, once practice is over, Ashley has locked up the gym, and Beau has headed home. He makes sure to shoot a text to Valerie before he can forget about it, thanking her for going the extra mile even though he’s still convinced he doesn’t deserve the favor. She simply sends him back a few hearts, expressing that she hopes everything went well.

As soon as he steps outside, he notices someone standing by his car across the parking lot, which never happens. Calum’s usually the last one out of practice, since Michael typically leaves as soon as he can and finds his own way home. But today, the red haired boy is anything _but_ long gone, leaned up against his passenger side door with a baseball cap on to cover his hair that’s all matted and sweaty from practice.

“You’re still here.” Calum observes lamely as he approaches, and Michael chuckles.

“Yeah.” Michael says. “I didn’t get to talk to you much in there. Bummed me out.” He pouts for effect, obvious and dorky, and Calum rolls his eyes before he’s smiling widely in spite of himself. He just can’t _help_ _it_ around Michael.

Calum steps a bit closer, and his heart speeds up when Michael reaches out a hand. Not quite hesitantly, Calum takes it, and he yelps softly when Michael pulls him in close, until they’re nearly chest to chest. He wonders for a moment if Michael can feel his heart pounding away, when they’re this near to one another.

“You don’t _seem_ very bummed.” Calum notes, and Michael bites his pink lower lip on an almost smile.

“Don’t be fooled.” Michael jokes. “I’m very torn up about it. Three hours was way too long to be in the same room as you without talking to you.” Ever so gently, Michael brings two fingers up underneath Calum’s chin, and he lifts with just enough force that Calum allows the fighter to tilt his head up. “Way too long to go without a kiss.”

Calum snorts out a laugh, pushing up on his toes to press a quick kiss to Michael’s nose. It makes the man groan in frustration, so Calum quickly does it again several more times.

“Want a ride home?” Calum asks, and Michael shrugs once before he nods. “Alright, let’s go.”

Calum steps back, gearing up to walk around to the driver’s side of the car before tossing his and Michael’s bags in the backseat. Calum doesn’t get very far, though, since Michael’s suddenly surging forward to fill the gap between them, his calloused hands cupping Calum’s face before he’s leaning in and slotting their lips together. It shocks Calum enough that he tenses up, but the second he actually registers what’s happened, he’s sighing contentedly and melting into it effortlessly.

It’s too easy to reach up, to settle his hands gently on Michael’s shoulders. He’s so comfortable in Michael’s embrace, so _relaxed_ that he’s pretty sure he could spend several hours like this.

But apparently, Michael had only intended for it to last a few moments, since he’s pulling away after several seconds and giving Calum a blissful smile. Calum can’t look away, lost in endless fucking green, same as always.

“Oh,” he breathes.

Michael smirks, blatantly cocky and proud of himself. “Now we can go.”

Calum can only nod, completely speechless, but he manages to collect himself before Michael can start to tease him about how gone he is from a simple kiss. He doesn’t need to give Michael any more embarrassing material to work with.

He unlocks the car, throwing his bag in the backseat along with Michael’s. He takes a few more moments for himself to catch his breath once Michael has climbed in and shut his door, and once he’s sure he isn’t going to, like, _pass out_ , he climbs into the driver’s seat beside the redhead.

Michael rambles off his address to Calum, since he’s admittedly forgotten it already, and once Calum’s sure he remembers how to get there, he pulls out of the gym’s parking lot and onto the regular surface streets.

It’s quiet for a couple minutes, and Calum’s horrifyingly worried for a moment that maybe they don’t have a lot of things to talk about in mindless moments like these. When he spares a few glances over at the man beside him, he finds that Michael is engrossed in his phone.

As if Michael can somehow read his mind, can somehow tell that Calum’s about to self destruct with needless worry, he says, “Sorry. Mom never remembers my schedule, so she’ll freak if I don’t let her know I’m coming home. I don’t need her thinking I’m breaking in again.” He laughs softly, like his mother mistaking her own son for an intruder is something funny, and Calum’s heart breaks a little further for Michael.

He’s not really sure what he could say to make that whole situation less painful, so he opts for saying nothing at all as he pulls up to a red light and flicks on his left turn signal.

“Anyway.” Michael says quickly, and Calum immediately regrets not having said anything when he hears the obvious discomfort in Michael’s voice. He doesn’t want Michael thinking he doesn’t _care_ about his problems, but he doesn’t get a chance to apologize for his awkwardness before Michael’s changing the subject. “Beau was cool.”

Calum smiles softly, inching into the intersection and waiting for a gap in traffic once the light turns green. “I’m glad you liked him. He seems like a good teacher.”

Michael hums. “Yeah, he is. Learned a lot from him.” It sounds like there’s more on the tip of Michael’s tongue, more that he wants to say. But if it really is there, Michael’s clearly forcing it down, deciding not to vocalize any of it. “Is it, um. Is it okay that I kissed you? Not the other day, but. Back there, I mean. At the gym.”

Admittedly, Calum wasn’t expecting for Michael to bring something like that up. Even more so, he wouldn’t have anticipated Michael sounding so nervous and insecure about it, when he’d seemed so confident and sure back at the parking lot—when he’d leaned in and damn near _demanded_ the kiss Calum was so eager to give him.

“What?” Is all Calum can come up with.

Michael looks down at his hands, picking at one of the calluses on his thumb. “I don’t know, just. The other day was one thing. I probably shouldn’t have just assumed you’d be alright with it happening again.”

Calum tuts, reaching over and wrapping his fingers around Michael’s pale wrist. He makes sure the road is clear before he takes his eyes off of it for a second, turning to give Michael the sincerest smile he can.

“I like kissing you. You can kiss me as often as you want, Mike.” He says, and he knows he’s blushing but he almost doesn’t even care. Not when Michael looks away to hide the flattered, giddy smile overtaking his own face.

Satisfied, Calum turns back to the road, but he leaves his hand right where it is.

It’s strange, how weightless and nearly _painless_ he feels with Michael right beside him, with the familiar heat of Michael’s body radiating against his touch. Calum thinks back to what Perrie had said yesterday morning, about there being a whole lot more to Michael and Calum than either of them realizes yet, and he feels _calm_. Reassured.

He pretends that he’s not completely melting inside when a few minutes later, Michael turns his hand over and laces their fingers together easily, and he especially pretends not to notice that it’s an awfully perfect fit.

*******

Valerie invites him out for lunch that weekend, when he finally has a day off. It’s some upscale restaurant downtown, with white walls and beautiful decor and big, open windows to stream in tons of natural light. He feels slightly out of place and more than a little underdressed, but to be fair, he and Valerie never used to go out for food at places like this. It always used to be dim sports bars, where they could share a couple beers and a plate of buffalo wings.

When Calum approaches the table, which the hostess had informed him was towards the back corner (he thanks Valerie silently for that one), he immediately notices that it’s not just the two of them that’ll be dining there that afternoon.

In a high chair next to Valerie is a small child, whom Calum instantly realizes must be his best friend’s daughter. He’s only met Beau once, but upon reaching the table and getting a closer look at the kid, he’s floored by how uncanny her resemblance to the guy—to her _father_ —is.

“Would ya look at that.” Calum muses, and Valerie turns to face him, that signature grin on her face. “I finally get to meet her.”

Valerie giggles, reaching over to boop her daughter on the nose. The child mimics the sound, a happy little shriek, and Calum can practically feel the fond radiating off his best friend as she beams at her baby. Motherhood has clearly been the best thing to ever happen to her.

“This is my little Rocket.” She boasts, adjusting the little pink bib fastened around Rocket’s neck so that it better catches the juice from her cup that she’s likely about to slosh everywhere.

Calum can’t stop smiling as he sits down across from Valerie, his eyes glued to Rocket as she fumbles around goofily with the snacks on her tray. He’s never really wanted kids of his own, but he’d also be lying if he said he didn’t have a huge soft spot for the tiny humans. And Rocket is probably the cutest fucking kid he’s ever seen, with her light brown hair and hazel eyes and _adorable_ laugh.

“Glad you could make it, kiddo.” Valerie says. “Waitress came ‘round earlier, so I just got you some water for now. Hope that’s alright.”

Calum nods, reaching for the glass of it in front of him and taking a long sip. “I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”

Valerie waves him off. “Not at all. Maybe ten minutes?” Rocket makes a disgruntled sound, evidently upset with the lack of attention she’s getting, and Calum can’t help but laugh, even when Valerie shoots him a look that clearly tells him not to indulge her.

“Maybe it’s because she’s stuck with having to eat Cheerios in a classy place like this.” Calum suggests, and Valerie reaches over to cover Rocket’s eyes before she flips him off with a chuckle.

“Tell Uncle Cal he’s full of it.” Valerie says to her daughter, and Rocket giggles, looking over at Calum sheepishly, but otherwise staying silent. Calum guesses she’s just shy, rather than unable to say it.

He beams at Valerie’s use of the title, but he doesn’t mention it for fear of being, like, super lame. Instead, he asks, “So, are you still managing fighters?”

Valerie shakes her head, frowning just slightly. “Not really. I mean, okay, like, I _do_ , but just Beau for right now. Probably broke a million rules by falling in love with a client, but between you and me, I’m pretty sure we’re cute enough that everyone just overlooks it.” She winks, like the whole relationship is so scandalous, even though they both know it isn’t really against any rule for a fighter to date their manager. “I’d really like to get back into it full time, but it’s a bit harder now, with the little one.” Calum nods, looking over at Rocket, who’s politely chomping away at her cereal.

“I bet it’s nice working with him.” Calum says. “He’s an incredible fighter. This whole week watching him with Michael has been, like, _amazing_. I’ve seen more growth in that kid in the week he’s been training with Beau than in all of the weeks he was with Luke.” Calum realizes he’s rambling, all fired up and passionate about Michael’s success in a way that has Valerie quirking her eyebrow. He’s so involved in his little speech that he doesn’t even notice when Valerie’s smile fades away. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Luke’s my best friend, but—”

“Michael would be doing much better if you were the one in the ring with him, Cal, and I think you know that.” She cuts him off, voice suddenly firm and direct in a way Calum’s not used to. He hasn’t heard her speak like this since the night of the incident, when she’d snapped at the press to get the fuck away from him. The cut in her words is nearly bone splitting, and Calum winces at it. “My fiancé is good, sure. But Beau’s no _you_ when it comes to the cage.”

Calum’s stunned into silence, mouth sort of caught agape, and it stays like that even when Valerie looks away from him to run a napkin over Rocket’s messy cheeks. He feels the start of a migraine prickling at the back of his head, feels the ache starting up deep in the socket of his shoulder, but he tells himself the pain is made up, simply a side effect of Valerie’s harsh dose of reality.

When she turns back to him, she adds more gently, “Deny it all you want, kiddo, but Michael needs _you_. It needs to be _you_ in that ring.”

The waitress comes back a few moments later to take their order, and Valerie makes a point not to mention anything about the league for the rest of their lunch. That doesn’t mean Calum doesn’t think about it the whole time, though, or that his stomach doesn’t keep turning for hours afterwards because of the words she’s said.

His shoulder hurts, _badly_ , and he tries to grit his teeth and tell himself it’ll go away soon. That it _has_ to go away, because it’s not _real_.

He ends up taking a pill as soon as he gets back to his car anyway, though, and wishes he was stronger than he is.


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's that day again! And I'm actually on time with the update this time lmao.
> 
> Kudos and feedback always appreciated <3 xx

With only three weeks left until the big fight, Calum thinks he should be focusing a little bit more on the approaching deadline.

But that’s a difficult thing to manage, considering all Calum can really think about is how _nice_ it feels to have Michael’s body against him, all warm and only a little bit gross thanks to all the sweat he’d accumulated at practice, which has only just ended a few minutes ago. Calum’s not even entirely sure they’re alone in the gym, though he’s positive they’ve got the locker room to themselves, for now.

Green eyes and pale skin cloud his vision in the greatest possible way, and Calum thinks he feels a whole lot better whenever he’s kissing the fighter. Not at his best, not _yet_ , but he’s sure that part will come later. Calum will be back to his best eventually, he _knows_ it.

For now, though, he’s just _great_ , with Michael’s rough hands digging into his hips and his own arms wrapped around the redhead’s neck, holding him impossibly close as his fingers curl into the back of Michael’s hair and tug slightly. Michael’s stealing kisses from him like it’s nothing, and Calum finds that it’s far too fucking easy to let Michael take and take and _take_.

Michael pulls away to suck in some air, squeezing Calum’s waist once before he relaxes his fingers and rests his forehead against the older man’s. Calum can hear himself panting, and he wants to be embarrassed about it, but he finds it hard to be with the way Michael’s looking at him.

“I swear I could kiss you for hours and not get tired of it.” Michael breathes out, like he’s in disbelief about that fact. He trails one hand up, his fingers just barely grazing over Calum’s torso as he goes, but Calum shudders nonetheless at the touch.

“You could, if you wanted to.” Calum assures him. “Right now, even. I don’t have any plans later.”

Michael laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners with the force of it, and Calum finds himself chuckling along quietly. Still smiling, Michael presses their lips together for a short kiss before he’s pulling back again.

“Way to play it cool.” Michael jokes, and Calum rolls his eyes, though he’s still blushing at his own unabashed eagerness.

Calum goes to retract his arms from around Michael’s neck, and he knows just by the shocked expression on Michael’s face that he’s done a piss poor job of covering up his discomfort when the movement sends waves of pain shooting down his back. Whimpering quietly, Calum tries to roll the cramping out, but everything he tries only feels like it’s making it worse.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asks, clearly worried, with his eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed as he hovers his hand over Calum’s arm like he’s afraid he might make anything worse if he touches. “Are you alright?”

Calum grits his teeth for several seconds, and after he’s held still long enough, the pain begins to subside. He sighs, relieved, before he allows himself to look up and meet Michael’s eyes.

“I’ve got a fucked up shoulder.” Calum says, shrugging his good one. “It’s whatever.”

Michael keeps on frowning. “It doesn’t look like ‘whatever’. How long has it been like that?”

Calum stares back at Michael blankly. “Three years.”

“Since your accident.” The younger boy hums, thoughtful though he seems saddened by that realization. “Have you been to see anybody for it?”

Calum nods, running his fingers along the hem of Michael’s shirt, just so he has something to do with his hands. Michael’s eyes follow the movement for a fraction of a second, before they’re darting back up to his face to watch him as he speaks.

“Yeah. Irwin’s wife.” Calum admits. “Only a couple times so far.”

Michael’s face lights up adorably, and Calum bites down on his tongue to keep from telling Michael as much out _loud_.

“Perrie’s lovely.” Michael says. “She’ll fix you up.”

“Luke tells me it’s in my head. That the pain went away years ago, and I’m just making it up anymore.” Calum admits to him, though he’s not entirely sure why. It just falls out, an easy confession.

Michael shrugs. “Maybe you are. And if you are, you probably don't mean to. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t _feel_ real, y’know? Either way, it doesn’t go away without some help.”

Calum blinks, stunned into silence. He’s never thought about it like that before, never even heard it expressed to him in such a way. But he’s pretty sure Michael’s _right_. Even _if_ everything Luke had said the morning of their argument was true—about his dependency on pills that aren’t necessary, masking pain that isn't true—it still _feels_ real.

And that’s the bitch of the whole thing, really. Because how is he supposed to heal, if the problem isn’t physical? Isn’t tangible? That’s something bigger than himself.

“It’ll take some time.” Michael tells him. “But one day, you won’t feel it anymore. There’ll be a day that goes by, and when you wake up the morning after it, you’ll realize you didn’t think about the pain even _once_. And sure, it won’t be tomorrow, or even the next day, but believe me, Cal, that day’s gonna come. That day will come, and you’re gonna be _better_.”

Calum’s throat tightens impossibly, his eyes fogging with tears he hadn’t felt forming, and then Calum’s crashing forward into Michael’s chest, arms locked around the man’s waist. He feels Michael’s own arms settle around his shoulders easily, and he feels safe. With Michael, he can finally feel _safe_ in his own skin.

With his lips pressed into Calum’s hair, Michael whispers, “Come have dinner at my place on Friday. I think it’d do you some good, right now.”

Without even a second thought, Calum agrees.

*******

Calum convinces himself to clean house a couple days later.

He doesn’t exactly wake up with the immediate intention to do a big floor-to-ceiling scrub down, but as he’s standing at his kitchen counter trying to think of what he could make for lunch, he catches sight of the vacuum, peeking out at him from where it was haphazardly stored in the coat closet that he must’ve left open, and inspiration strikes.

He doesn’t clean the apartment often, mostly because he’s a twenty-six year old man who lives by himself, but also because he hates all the effort involved, usually.

This particular afternoon is different, though. This time, it feels almost mindless. There’s something almost _therapeutic_ about wiping down the mirror in his bathroom and deep cleaning all the grime that has built up in the kitchen.

The television is on in the living room, blasting some old rerun of a sitcom his sister used to love back when she was in high school, but Calum can’t really make out any of the words from all the way in the bedroom, where he’s making his way around with the vacuum. He’s taking his time, trying to make the little track marks the machine leaves behind on the carpet even, and he feels _accomplished_ with how spic and span everything’s starting to look. He thinks that to an outsider, it probably almost seems like he’s got his shit together.

With a spring in his step, Calum turns, lifting up the corner of his bed comforter that had plummeted down to the floor thanks to his wild sleeping habits. As he drags the vacuum over the spot that removing the blanket reveals to him, he hears the unmistakable crinkle of crumbs, and he chuckles at his messy nature as he starts inching the vacuum further underneath the bed frame.

The machine doesn’t get more than a foot in before it bumps up against something. Calum doesn’t really remember putting anything under his bed, knowing he’d be destined to lose whatever it was if he did, so he shakes it off and pulls the vacuum back a little before trying once more.

He hits the object again.

Frowning, Calum pulls the machine back, flicking the off switch and setting it off to the side. Kicking the cord out of his way, Calum drops down onto his stomach, peering underneath the bed to get a better look at whatever it is he’s hit.

Upon first glance, all Calum can decipher is that it’s a box. Just a big old cardboard box that Calum _knows_ he didn’t put under there. As a testament to that fact, he can’t find anything else underneath the bed besides this lone, isolated box.

Curious, Calum extends his good arm, flicking at the box with a few fingers until it turns enough that he can get a solid grip on it. He pulls back, and the box comes with easily, though it leaves behind a puff of dust that has Calum coughing and reminding himself to vacuum this whole room over again, and to wash the sheets while he’s at it.

There isn’t any writing on the box to give him a clue as to what’s inside it, and Calum’s starting to wonder just how long the damn thing has been in his room. He’s sure he’d remember storing something like this.

When he peels away the tape and opens up the cardboard flaps of the box, Calum’s immediately certain that he was _not_ the one to put this damn thing underneath his bed. He can only assume it was Luke or Valerie that snuck it under here, because if Calum had his way, this box and everything in it would’ve been destroyed. _Burned_ , if that were manageable.

The box is filled with photographs, for the most part, but it’s the two decently sized trophies that have Calum realizing the nature of the content inside it more than anything else. He recognizes them both instantly, the Breakthrough Fighter of the Year trophy he got just a few months after Valerie booked him his first fight. The Fight of the Year trophy he’d received at the following awards ceremony, credited to the fight he’d had in which he’d beaten his personal knockout time.

He remembers holding each of those trophies up on the evening of the awards show in the respective years he’d earned them, so high above his head, so few words to express how _thankful_ he was to have even _gotten_ that far. He remembers Ashley, too, blushing like mad when she received the Gym of the Year for the third respective year, always so humble like she was never expecting it, never seeing it coming.

He sees the photos, next, picking them up one by one even though he’s not sure how many he’s actually going to be able to get through before he cracks.

The first one is of himself and Luke, giddy and youthful standing in front of the apartment they first rented together upon moving to LA. Two days after this photo was taken, they signed with the UFC.

The next one he grabs is of himself and his father on the night of his first fight. His family had flown out to watch him, all the way from New York, and despite that his mother was so nervous for his safety that she could hardly watch the fight while it happened, he remembers her taking the photograph of her husband and her son afterwards with sure, steady hands.

“We’re so proud of you, Cally.” She’d murmured after, dropping the camera back into her purse before lunging forward and pulling him in for a hug, despite his sweaty body and exhausted limbs.

There’s several more pictures of himself and Luke throughout their adventures in Los Angeles, some dumb selfies he’d taken with his sister on the rare occasions they got to see each other during those three years Calum was in the league. He can’t help but smile softly when he sees those particular photos.

What he pulls out next is a Polaroid of him and Valerie, using their Coronas to salute the camera, and it’s clearly been taken by some other third party. Luke, probably, if Calum had to guess. He remembers the night it was taken almost immediately--it was the night they first met, invited out by respective mutual friends during a massive group outing to the pub Calum still goes to on occasion. They’d hit it off instantly, friends from the word go, and when she drunkenly offered to be his agent only minutes after finding out Calum was a fighter, Calum had accepted, equally as intoxicated.

Calum sets that photo off to the side, deciding to pin it up on his wall, or something. The photographs aren’t so bad, Calum decides. They’re not as awful on his memories as the trophies and medals are. Not as physical a reminder.

But it’s not the pictures of Valerie, Luke, or his family that get to him.

In the end, it’s a picture of himself, taken by a professional, used as his promotional image for the fight that changed everything. That’s what gets him. That’s the one that reminds him just what the fuck he’s allowing himself to get into.

He scrambles backwards from where he’s sitting on the floor, incidentally kicking the box in his wake. It shakes, the contents inside shifting more than they’re used to, but Calum can hardly hear the noise the items make against one another over the sound of his own heavy breathing. They’re coming more like gasps now, and Calum’s chest feels tighter. Nothing worse than what he’s experienced before, but still. He’s not usually _alone_ when it happens.

With shaking fingers and a barely conscious stream of thought, Calum digs around in his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. He can’t really read the words on the screen once he’s unlocked it, his hands rattling too much, but he’s able to sort of make out the names of his contacts once he’s managed to get that app opened.

He scrolls down to the M’s, until his thumb is hovering over Michael’s name. He tries to make himself press it, to call the boy he knows would drop anything to run over and help him, but he can’t seem to do it. Not because he doesn’t want to, because he _does_.

He’s not sure what he’s thinking when he scrolls up a bit, definitely not sure what he’s doing when he presses down on the familiar name without so much as a second thought or a moment’s hesitation.

While he focuses on making himself _breathe_ , Calum lifts the phone to his ear, praying that it won’t go to voicemail. Calum’s not sure he’d be able to manage the courage involved with dialing again, or dialing anybody else, if his call is missed.

Just when Calum thinks all hope is lost, the phone clicks, a telltale sign that someone’s picked up, and then Luke is saying, “Calum?”

Calum squeezes his eyes shut, willing his heart rate to slow down, but it’s difficult. He’s not sure he can do it alone. He’s also not sure why he called _Luke_ , of all people, his probably ex-best-friend who hasn’t spoken to him since their falling out in the gym. Luke’s probably just going to scoff at him, call him a dick before he hangs up without another word.

Only, that’s not at all what Luke does. Because before Calum can even remember how to form words, Luke’s asking, “Kid, are you okay? You don’t sound okay.”

With an unsure voice, Calum manages to squeak out, “Luke.”

Calum can almost _hear_ it when everything clicks for Luke, can almost see him lunging off of his couch and scrambling for his keys. “Fuck, okay. I’m on my way, Cal, alright? Don’t hang up.”

Calum nods, even though he knows Luke can’t see it, and he lifts his knees up to his chin. He wonders for a moment if the front door is unlocked. He prays it is, because he’s not sure he’d be able to make himself walk out there to undo the deadbolt when Luke arrives. He hopes Luke won’t have to, like, break down the door, as if he’s some kind of superhero, because that’d be super embarrassing and would also cost a lot of money he doesn’t have right now to repair it.

“C-can you hurry?” Calum murmurs down the line.

Luke hums. “Yeah, kid. I’m just down the street, okay? I can see your building now.” He sounds out of breath, too, and Calum feels a pang of guilt hit him when he realizes Luke must be sprinting all the way here.

It’s hard not to be at least a _little_ bit thankful for it, though, because that means Luke’s close by enough that he didn’t even need to take his car. He’ll be here a lot sooner than Calum had anticipated. 

“Stairs.” Luke announces a minute or two later, and it’s almost enough to calm Calum down just to know that Luke is practically moments away.

He keeps the phone on, barely hanging onto it with limp fingers. Even when he hears the familiar jingle of keys in his front door, keys he’d completely _forgotten_ Luke was in possession of, he keeps the phone on.

“Cal?” He hears Luke call out, and only then does Calum let the phone drop out of his hand, sliding it away from him a few feet. He doesn’t want the distraction of it, now, only wants his best friend, regardless of any stupid argument.

He stumbles through it when he calls out, “Bedroom,” and then Luke is in his doorway, worry flashing through his eyes and chest rising and falling quickly. He really _had_ run all the way here. Calum tries not to cry at the sweetness of that fact. Luke’s too good for him, sometimes.

Luke sighs sadly, lowering his own phone that was pressed to his ear. He hangs up, pocketing the item, before he slowly approaches the brown boy, slumped against his dresser. In his effort, he nearly trips over the box in the middle of the room, and he recognizes the items as quickly as Calum had.

Frowning, Luke whispers, “Oh, kid. Shit.”

Calum shakes his head. “M’sorry. I shouldn’t’ve called, it’s dumb, it’s—”

“Shut up, it’s not dumb.” Luke says gently, his voice a low and steady murmur that has always managed to calm Calum down whenever he gets like this. He wishes he never had to hear it, never had to listen to Luke trying to comfort him like this.

Calum turns his head, looking up at Luke with fogged up eyes. He’s already feeling better, just having his oldest friend here with him, but the unnerving feeling of panic and discontent is still swirling around under his skin, and he can’t quite seem to shake it.

His shoulder aches. _Burns_.

“I need—can you grab my bottle?” Calum pleads, pointing towards the nightstand where his small prescription bottle sits, even though it’s across the room. Luke follows his finger, but when he sees what Calum’s asking for, he shakes his head.

“You can do it without them.” Luke tells him, shrugging out of his light jacket before sitting down on the floor beside Calum and draping the article of clothing around his friend’s shoulders.

Calum shivers, pulling it further around him. “I don’t know if that’s true.”

Luke nods, like he understands where Calum’s coming from, but his expression all too clearly shows Calum that he’s not convinced. “I know you don’t. But it is. You don’t need them.”

Calum whimpers, turning into Luke, and the blond catches him with open arms. He doesn’t say anything as Calum sobs into his chest, just strokes his open palm over the small of his back, shushes him every now and then.

“I know I don’t.” Calum says into the fabric of Luke’s shirt, muffled and watery. “But _god_ , does it feel like I do.”

Luke doesn’t say ‘I told you so’, doesn’t even say _anything_ , just continues his relaxing movement over Calum’s back while he waits it out. It takes several more minutes, and plenty of more sobs, but eventually Calum’s able to sit without shaking, to breathe a bit more steadily. Eventually, it doesn’t feel like he’s drowning.

And his shoulder still hurts, but he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he tries not to think about it.

“I’m glad you answered.” Calum admits, sniffling.

Luke smiles gently, so soft and subtle Calum can hardly even see it. “Anything for you, man.”

“Even after the last time we spoke?” Calum asks, laughing a bit. It sounds embarrassed, which Calum _is_ , a little bit. He can’t really believe himself, calling _Luke_ , of all people. He can’t believe the guy even bothered to show up.

Luke furrows his eyebrows. “Of course. It doesn’t matter if we had a fight, Cal. You’re my best fuckin’ friend. I _always_ want to be the person you call when you need someone.”

Calum nods, blushing a bit. “You will be.” He says, and Luke beams, leaning forward and bumping their foreheads together softly before he pulls away again. It’s such a stupid gesture, so _bro-ish_ of him, that Calum can’t help but chuckle before shoving Luke’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. For how I acted at the gym that morning.”

Luke tuts. “Yeah. Me too. I shouldn’t have been so hard on you. You’re trying, and I get that. I mean, hell, it's not even any of my business.”

“It’s nice that you care.” Calum assures him, wrapping his arms around his legs and pulling them to his chest.

Luke puffs out his chest, rolling his eyes. “Gay,” he jokes, but Calum can see the flattered blush creeping up his neck, though he lets it slide for now. Luke did him a favor today, he doesn’t need to tease him just yet.

Instead, he says, “I went to see Valerie.” Luke sits up a little further at that, clearly surprised, but Calum cuts him off before Luke can say anything. “Also, I kissed Michael. So. That's happening now, too.”

He's not sure what makes him decide to admit the second half, since it's not really anyone’s business besides himself and Mike, but he knows it wasn't a mistake to confess it when Luke just starts giggling, shaking his head fondly before he leans it back against the dresser. The blond keeps laughing, and Calum can't help but chuckle along with him, because it _is_ sort of ridiculous for right now.

“Incredible.” Luke says once he's winded down. Without looking over at him, Luke asks, “Does he make you happy?”

Calum can't help but note the way Luke avoids asking if Michael makes him _better_ , how his friend keeps labels and hints out of the equation, how he always lets Calum arrive at his emotions on his own, without prompting. Calum thinks that's what makes him keep Luke around.

“Yeah, I think so.” Calum murmurs, and Luke nods, smiling to himself. Calum doesn't think he's supposed to see it, so he tries not to stare, to not feel so proud of the fact that Luke approves of his romantic endeavors, no matter how out of the blue they may seem.

He sees Luke staring at the open box on the floor, and he tries to keep his voice even when he says, “There’s a lot of pictures of us in there. You can keep some if you want.”

Luke startles, like he’s been caught, but he only glances over at Calum once before he’s looking back at the box. He shakes his head. “Nah. You keep ‘em. One day it won’t hurt to look through them anymore.”

Calum smiles, resting his chin on his knees as he watches the box with Luke like it’s going to do something miraculous.

It's a nice thought, really, and more than anything, Calum hopes Luke’s right about it.


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a day late! I decided to go ahead and focus on family yesterday because of the holiday. But without further ado....

Friday comes a lot sooner than Calum is anticipating for it to, despite the dramatic start to his week. It’s easier, though, because he’s got Michael to distract him from the trauma of it when he’s at the gym, and he’s finally got Luke back for all the times when he’s not.

His nerves are still well at work now, though, as he sits in his car, parked by the curb outside of Michael’s residence with the engine still running. It’s just that he’s never done this before, the whole meeting-the-parents thing. At least not for _real_ , not intentionally like this. Not since his first real boyfriend way back in high school. It’s sort of mind boggling, because, like. He and Michael aren’t _boyfriends_ , he doesn’t think. There's no _way_ they're there yet—not even close. So he can’t imagine why Michael thinks it’s necessary for Calum to come have dinner at his place, with his _mother_ , the only person on the planet Michael loves more than anyone else, ever.

It’s just a lot of pressure, basically, and pressure isn’t something that Calum has a track record of handling well.

He feels himself starting to sweat, and he curses, reaching up and wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. His free hand is in his lap, holding the small orange bottle he’s all too accustomed to, and he’s in the middle of a debate.

Probably, he shouldn’t take one. He knows Luke would be disappointed in him for it, but that’s got nothing on how disappointed Calum would be with _himself_. He’s been trying to wane himself off them, more dedicated to it ever since Luke came to his apartment a few days ago and told him he _believed_ in Calum, that he just _knew_ Calum was stronger than it.

Calum desperately wants to believe him right back.

He figures if it’s just one, just to take the nervous edge off so that he can relax around Michael and his mother for the next couple hours, then no harm no foul. Besides, it’d probably be better to take one _now_ , before the pain even starts, than it would be to take one later, when Michael and his mother can both clearly tell something’s wrong before Calum dismisses himself to the bathroom and tries pathetically to play it off.

But the moment he uncaps the bottle and tilts it slightly towards his open palm, he stops himself, feeling something like _regret_ settle in his stomach, which is odd, considering he hasn’t even _done_ anything yet.

He groans, thumping his head back against the back of his headrest, squeezing his eyes shut. It all just _sucks_.

His phone chirps from where it’s sat on Calum’s dashboard, and he jumps in his seat, eyes flying open wide, before he recognizes the source of the noise. He reaches out for the phone, thumbing in his passcode to unlock it, and he’s greeted with a text from Michael.

_You gonna sit out there all night or what?_ , it reads. Calum rolls his eyes, chuckles at the thought of Michael watching him out here from the window, waiting for him. A few seconds later, _Food will get cold :(_

Calum fires off a quick _Okay okay, omw_ before he turns the keys back in the ignition, and the engine shuts off. He gives himself a quick onceover in the rearview mirror before he just huffs and decides he looks as good as he’s gonna get, pocketing his phone and keys before he tosses his prescription bottle onto the passenger seat, forgotten.

Michael has the door open before Calum’s even finished making his way up the sidewalk, and Calum tries his hardest not to grin at Michael’s complete lack of subtlety. He doesn’t want to look _too_ gone for the guy. That’d just be, like. The worst.

“You look great!” Michael greets, opening his arms for what Calum thinks is going to be a tight embrace, but ends up just being a quick squeeze before the redhead is pulling back, bouncing back on his heels. “Mom and dinner are in the kitchen. Make yourself at home—shoes are optional, by the way.”

Calum nods, toeing off his shoes and watching as Michael scampers, presumably, back off towards the kitchen. He wishes he’d gotten to hold Michael closer for just a smidge longer—he’d smelt like some kind of sweet dessert he’ll probably end up hiding from Calum until the end of the night.

Once his shoes are set neatly by the door, Calum starts off in the direction he remembers Michael heading. As he goes, he takes in everything he can about Michael’s home—the warm color scheme, the smell of what has to be Italian food and sugar cascading throughout every room, the loud whir of the box fan in the window that’s doing little to dilute said smell. He tries not to snoop too much, yet he can’t help but smile fondly at the school pictures of Michael that are scattered amongst the artwork on the walls, clearly hung there by his mother.

He also can’t help but to notice there’s nothing from the last three years, at _least_. From _any_ of Michael’s UFC accomplishments, really, which Calum knows there are _plenty_ of. Calum tries not to feel too heartbroken over that, even though he’s almost positive he knows why it’s the case. He wonders if it hurts Michael to look at the walls, ever. To look at the picture frames and know there’s nothing from the past few years because his mother can’t _remember_ that much.

Calum shoves down the sudden wave of heartache that’s hit him, tries to get the bittersweet taste of it out of his mouth as he rounds the corner at the end of the foyer and enters the kitchen area. Michael’s back is to him when he comes in, but it’s like the guy _knows_ that Calum is in the room, suddenly, since he shoots a quick smile over his shoulder before waving Calum further in.

“Cal,” Michael says charmingly, extending his arm out and motioning to the woman that’s busy setting the table. Calum remembers her from the time he’d been to their house before, though he definitely wasn’t so eagerly invited in last time. “You remember my mom?”

Calum fixes his posture immediately, and he ignores the way Michael blatantly snorts at him for doing so (Calum won’t be so easily deterred, though—he may have only met the parents once before, but he knows the importance of a good impression, damn it). He smiles softly, stepping towards her and extending his hand.

“Calum Hood.” He introduces, and he tries not to sigh in literal relief when Michael’s mother beams vibrantly, bypassing his handshake altogether and pulling him in for a friendly embrace. She kisses the side of his head quickly, and Calum prays he isn’t blushing when she pulls back and pats his cheek once. He wonders if she acts like this with everyone she meets, or if Michael had told her something special about him to bring on a greeting like this.

“Lovely to meet you, sweetie.” She says. “I’m Karen. Could you grab some glasses from the cabinet? Michael, honey, show Calum the wine cabinet, would you?”

Calum turns, looking at Michael over his shoulder, quirking an eyebrow and making a stupid face that causes Michael to stick his tongue out at him. He can hardly wait to tease Michael about the way he caves almost instantly, mumbling “Sure, Mom,” as he nods for Calum to follow him over to one of the cabinets near the fridge.

“I didn’t take you for a wine kind of guy.” Calum jokes quietly, and he giggles when Michael elbows him in the ribs before handing him three crystalline glasses. “More like beer and cheap whiskey.”

“I’m more cultured than you think.” Michael retaliates, wiggling his eyebrows ridiculously.

Calum rolls his eyes fondly, walking back to the table and setting them down by each of the plates Karen has previously arranged. She claps when he does so, bending down to open what looks like a mini fridge of some kind, shuffling around what Calum quickly realizes are bottles of wine.

“Which one did you say we should have, baby bear?” Karen asks, and Calum has to slap a hand over his mouth in order to stop himself from laughing at the adorable nickname. Michael groans as subtly as he can, giving Calum a look that all too clearly says not to ever bring this moment up again, for as long as either of them are alive.

“Sangiovese, Mom.” Michael tells her, and Calum’s eyes widen at the practiced pronunciation. He means to seem impressed, but Michael must mistake it for confusion, since he adds, “S’a red wine, if that’s okay? I’m sure there’s some pinot grigio in there if you prefer white, though.”

Calum’s speechless, honestly, staring at Michael like he’s some foreign object. He’d never expected Michael to have _any_ knowledge on a topic that’s so seemingly odd. Odd for _Michael_ , at least. Michael fights in the UFC, and watches hockey at sports bars in his spare time. Michael doesn’t know about _wine_ —except for the fact that apparently, he _does_.

“I’m, um. No, I’m great, sang—uh. The red wine is good.” Calum stutters, and Michael smirks at him just as Karen stands back up, a large bottle of the wine in her hands, squinting slightly as she reads the label to make sure she’s picked up the right one. “What’s for dinner?” He asks, to cover up his stupid bumbling. “I smelled Italian.”

Michael nods enthusiastically, beaming. “Chicken cacciatore. Hope you’re hungry, ‘cause there’s plenty to last, like, a week.”

Calum grins. “ _Starving_.”

“He’s been slaving over it all afternoon.” Karen admits, wrestling with the hard foil wrapping around the top of the wine bottle. With a smile, Calum offers to take it from her, and she thanks him as he tears through the barrier easily, then hands it back to her so that she can use the wine opener on the cork.

“ _Mom_.” Michael groans, clearly embarrassed by her confession. He runs his fingers through his hair, and Calum bites his lip on a grin at the blush he can see creeping up Michael’s neck.

“You made it from scratch?” Calum wonders, and when Michael nods sheepishly, Calum can’t help but emit this slow whistle, mesmerized. “God, it’s like I made you in a factory, or something.”

He doesn’t even have time to think about the fact that he’s said that _right_ in front of Michael’s mother, before Karen is chuckling to herself at their exchange, finally popping the cork on the wine and pouring herself a glass. She lifts it, giving both boys a small little toast.

“He’s sweet, Michael. I like him.” Karen says, words clearly directed right at her son, who’s staring at his hands and visibly fighting back a fond smile. “Now let’s eat, yeah? I’m not getting any younger.”

*******

Dinner goes off without a hitch, much to Calum’s relief. He’d been so wrecked out in his car, so worried something would go horribly wrong, but the only problem they seem to run into is that they finish the bottle of sangiovese much earlier than they’d all anticipated.

Calum is floored by Michael’s apparent chef-like abilities, helps himself to three servings of cacciatore before he realizes that he doesn’t think he can physically manage another bite anymore. Michael seems genuinely flattered, though, so Calum decides his stomach’s slight discomfort is entirely worth it for the smile it puts on Michael’s face.

Karen is something of a riot, telling Calum probably a hundred stories about Michael back when he was in school, and about the girl named Geordie who lived next door to them growing up that Michael was apparently in love with. Calum’s got tears in his eyes by the end of the meal, and on more than one occasion, he feels Michael’s foot caress his calf underneath the table, which keeps his heart only slightly above absolutely _racing_.

When Michael stands up and starts to collect plates, Karen waves him away, telling him she’ll take care of dishes for the evening. Calum opens his mouth to insist that they’ve got it, but she just gives him a no-nonsense stare, and Calum decides it’s better not to argue with her.

“I’d better head out anyway, I suppose.” Calum says, and Michael frowns slightly. “I’ve been in your hair long enough, I’m sure.”

Karen rolls her eyes. “That’s ridiculous, honey. You’re welcome any time.”

Calum nods, giving her a sincere smile, before he pushes back from the table and stands up. He looks over at Michael, who’s clearly sad to see him go so soon, but Calum doesn’t intend to overstay his welcome, no matter what Karen says.

“Walk me out?” Calum asks, and Michael sighs heavily before he shrugs, like it’s some big burden, but Calum can tell it’s only because he doesn’t want to see him leave, which Calum finds entirely endearing.

Ultimately, Michael agrees, letting Calum walk past him first to lead the way out of the dining area. Michael’s close behind, but he stops dead in his tracks as soon as his mother speaks again.

“Mike, honey, did your father call you earlier?” Karen asks, and to any outsider, it might seem like a reasonable question. But Calum knows this story, or at least as much of it as Michael’s willing to share with him, so he knows why the question is a total problem. “He didn’t make it for dinner, and it’s just unlike him, is all.”

Michael’s back is still facing her, so he winces as harshly as he wants to, and it breaks Calum’s heart to see it. Calum can’t imagine that kind of emotional pain.

Truthfully, as awful as it might be for him to think so, Calum had nearly forgotten Karen was even _sick_. She’d been _great_ , seemed so put together, so witty and on point with her stories the entire evening, that it was almost _easy_ to forget.

Now, though, it’s not so easy.

To Calum’s surprise, Michael doesn’t correct her. Doesn’t remind her that her husband, that Michael’s _father_ , hasn’t been in the picture for over four years now. Instead, Michael just forces his face to appear more neutral, before he turns, giving his mother a confused look and a shake of his head, before he tells her: “Y’know what, he didn’t. I’m sure he’s just caught up at work, though, Mom. You can make him a plate, if you want.”

Karen nods at her son’s words, looking deep in thought as she resumes clearing the table.

Not even a second later, Michael’s grabbing Calum’s hand, tugging him towards the foyer as quickly as possible. Calum doesn’t know what to say—doesn’t know what he’s even _allowed_ to say, so he just slides his shoes on in silence, walking through the front door that Michael is holding open for him before Michael follows him out, shutting the door behind them.

Michael doesn’t say anything, either, not until they’ve both made it down the sidewalk and are merely feet away from Calum’s car. Only _then_ does he let himself hiss out an angry “ _Fuck_ ,” as he slams his hand down on the roof of the vehicle.

“Hey, hey.” Calum tries, smoothing his hands up Michael’s sides. “S’alright.”

Michael shakes his head, looking upwards, and Calum knows that tactic all too well, knows that Michael’s trying to force his forming tears back down into their ducts.

“It’s not.” He whispers. “She was having such a good day. I thought, I just. I thought th-that _maybe_ —”

Calum shushes him, pulling Michael closer, and he nearly whimpers _with_ Michael when the fighter buries his face in Calum’s neck and clings to him so tightly that Calum nearly can’t breathe.

“I’m sorry.” Michael murmurs several moments later, once he’s able to pull away, to stand upright by himself, and Calum shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, or whatever, back there. Normally I’d correct her, but she gets mad about it when I do, sometimes, and...”

Calum hums. “I’m glad you let me see this part of your life. It means a lot, that you trust me enough.”

Michael smiles softly, reaching up to brush his fingers down the length of Calum’s jaw. “You trusted me with your story. I wanted to show you mine.”

Calum smiles right back, turning his head to give Michael’s unsuspecting fingers a little kiss. He revels in Michael’s mildly surprised hitch of breath, and sort of wishes this moment could last forever. This is one of those little snapshots of his life he’d actually _like_ to save, to forever have in the form of a Polaroid, and it's the kind of picture he _wouldn’t_ want buried in a box hidden away underneath his bed.

“You're something else, you know that?” Calum whispers, mostly unintentionally.

Michael leans in, nuzzles his nose beside Calum’s, and the older man’s heart nearly stops as he drops his mouth open slightly, anticipating a kiss that doesn't come right away.

“I've got some idea.” Michael says, and it's so _stupidly_ cheesy, but it's just enough to make Calum surge forward, to slot their lips together the way he's been dying to ever since he laid his eyes on Michael earlier in the evening. The desperate way that Michael paws at his waist tells him Michael’s been dealing with a similar problem.

Calum gasps when he feels a sting against his bottom lip, clearly the burning aftermath of Michael’s teeth having nipped him. It’s an incredible feeling, a small little burst of pain that has him arching his neck for more, and he blushes down to his chest when he hears Michael chuckle at him, at how desperate he must seem.

He wants to ask for more, wants to beg Michael to kiss him so hard he feels it for _hours_ after, but his mind easily drifts to thoughts of Karen, alone in the kitchen making a plate of leftovers for a man who won’t be coming home to her, and he feels an incredible wave of something like _guilt_ wash over him, and he leans back, parting their lips.

Michael frowns, looking like he wants to protest, and the look alone has Calum ready to cave and pull Michael back in, but he forces himself to keep a level head.

“Something wrong?” Michael asks, stroking his thumb over Calum’s hip in a way that seems almost mindless.

Calum shakes his head, chewing lightly on his own lower lip and nearly shivering at the tenderness he feels, clearly caused by Michael’s previous little bite. He licks over the skin, trying to soothe it, but all he accomplishes with that his darkening Michael’s eyes, which.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Calum assures him, laughing a bit. “You _know_ I wanna kiss you all the time. But, like, your mom’s inside, and…”

He trails off, but Michael’s already nodding. With seemingly less intensity, Michael leans in again, kissing the corner of Calum’s mouth before leaving a few more soft pecks to Calum’s cheek. When he’s done, he doesn’t pull back, just stays near enough that their foreheads can rest together, and Calum can’t help but smile at the intimacy of it all, wrapping his arms around Michael’s waist to keep him close.

A minute later, Michael whispers, “There’s less than a month left.”

Calum doesn’t pull away, just runs one of his hands up Michael’s back in a way he hopes is somewhat comforting. “That’s soon.”

Michael sighs in what sounds like agreement. “It is. Weird, right? It’s already been over two months. We’re already _here_.” On the last word, Michael bumps their noses together, and that’s the only reason Calum suspects Michael might not be entirely referring to the upcoming fight, and he blushes.

Horrifically, because Calum’s increasingly losing control of his brain-to-mouth filter, he suddenly murmurs, “I don’t think I’d have made it this far without you.” And as soon as it’s come out, Calum instantly fidgets, like he wants to backtrack, or play it off, but Michael’s abrupt grin renders him unable to do the damage control he so desperately wants to.

Quietly, Michael says, “Me either. You make things easier.”

And when Michael leans in just a few inches to kiss him fiercely once again, Calum decides that’s all the reassurance he could ever need, and he lets himself feel safe. Warm. Happy.

He lets himself feel _better_.


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kinda boring I guess and focuses on relationships other than malum and the ending is kinda abrupt but I promise the next chapter is a lot more fun ;)

The two and a half weeks remaining until Michael’s big match go by a lot more quickly than Calum would’ve liked for them to. It sort of feels like the world is spinning out of control, but in this spectacular kind of way, instead of the hopeless way Calum’s grown used to.

He keeps going to Perrie’s, more and more times per week, and as much as he’d rather not admit it for the sake of scoring those free sessions she promised him, he thinks she may be doing wonders for his shoulder. The pain’s not _gone_ , not completely, but when he comes to the realization that he hasn’t taken any Vicodin for nearly 24 hours, it’s a small victory that has him calling Luke with actual tears in his eyes.

(When he tells Luke about it, Luke says he’s so fucking proud of him, and it’s probably the most genuine his best friend has _ever_ sounded.)

Luke still doesn’t take back over in the ring, but Calum thinks that everyone’s come to be okay with that. Beau has incredible skill, and Michael seems to get on with him really well, so Calum figures it works out. Luke _does_ start showing up to practices again when there’s a week left until the fight, however, and although Calum can tell he wishes that Calum was the one in the ring, he doesn’t look _nearly_ as judgmental as he used to, and that’s at least _something_.

Valerie only comes around once, with Rocket on her hip and a paper lunch bag for her fiancé in her free hand. She stays just long enough to briefly introduce herself to Michael (whom she pretends to know nothing about, probably for the sake of Calum’s tendency to embarrass easily) and to reunite with Luke, who can’t seem to keep his eyes off of her baby from the moment she’s come into the room, looking almost _jealous_ of the fact Valerie has one. Calum has to smack the back of his head in order to snap him out of his weird funk. Luke promptly flips him off as a result, and then Calum has to reprimand him for that, too, since Rocket’s undoubtedly seen the gesture.

Before every practice, Calum will arrive at the gym early so he can have a few minutes of peace and quiet with the boy who makes his head stop spinning so hard, no matter how briefly. And after every practice, without fail, Michael will meet him out by his car to kiss him until he can’t even breathe anymore. They’re the best parts of his day, he thinks.

For once, Calum feels like he’s in control again. Like life is starting to come just a little bit easier.

*******

“My wife says I need to be more social.” Ashton says on the last day of practice, as soon as Michael’s disappeared into the locker room to change out. His arms are crossed over his chest, his muscles threatening the fabric of his light blue button down, and he seemingly refuses to look over at Luke and Calum standing beside him.

They’d all been watching Beau and Michael go at it in the cage for the last quarter of an hour in near silence, save for a few comments or remarks regarding form and technique, so Calum nearly jumps out of his skin when Ashton’s loud voice suddenly breaks through the quiet.

Luke hardly has to register the words Ashton’s said before he’s throwing his head back, an incredible, obnoxious laugh tearing its way out of him, and Calum almost wants to reprimand him for being rude, but he can’t pretend that it _isn’t_ something hilarious.

“Perrie thinks you need to broaden your social horizons?” Calum inquires, and he snorts when Ashton turns to glare at him.

“She _says_ me, but she _means_ ‘we’.” Ashton insists, pouting childishly, and Calum has to bite his lip on what’s inevitably going to be a shit-eating grin. Ashton’s so whipped, but Calum actually envies him just a little bit. He knows how much Perrie cares about him—how smitten they both are with one another. It’s actually kind of sweet, how even the smallest of requests from his wife has Ashton jumping through hoops to solve whatever problem it is she may have.

No matter how sweet it is, though, Luke still laughs at him, and Ashton clearly can’t help himself when he fights a smirk and rolls his eyes at the blond.

“Oh, fuck off, Luke.” Ashton says, trying to look upset, but Calum can tell as easily as anybody that Ashton finds the whole thing pretty humorous as well.

Luke snickers one last time, forcing himself to calm down enough so that he can form full sentences again. “What’s your proposed solution to you and the Missus’ lack of social life, then? Swinger parties?” He asks, fighting the laugh that’s clearly bubbling up in his chest, and Calum has to swallow down his own chuckle.

Ashton pouts. “You guys are assholes, you know that? I shouldn’t even invite you after this. Awful people.”

At the mention of an invitation, Calum perks up, but not as much as Luke, who’s suddenly serious as ever, never one to turn down the possibility of some kind of party.

“Invite us?” Luke asks, quirking an eyebrow, and he makes an unhappy noise when Ashton just turns his nose up at him. “Oh, c’mon, man. Invite us where? I promise I won’t make fun of your limited social spectrum anymore.”

Ashton sighs, only seeming mildly put out when he confesses, “Perrie wants to have a little get together Friday night, before Mike’s fight. Said I should invite the whole cast and crew, or whatever. So.”

Luke beams, practically squealing as he turns to Calum. He looks hopeful, as if Calum will say no, but Calum also suspects that Luke won’t attend the small party if Calum says he doesn’t want to go. It’s kind of adorable, Calum thinks. Luke’s too loyal a friend, sometimes.

“What, you want my permission, or something?” Calum asks, laughing, and Ashton makes a disgruntled noise at the same time as Luke shoves him away playfully. “I’m _kidding_ , I’m kidding, I’ll be there.”

Satisfied, Luke turns back to Ashton, giving him an enthusiastic smile and head nod. Ashton pretends to be irritated at the blond’s ridiculousness, but he still looks flattered and relieved that the two of them are coming, so Calum decides to cut him a break.

“Perfect!” Ashton boasts, clapping his hands together once like it’s some sort of official gesture. “Six o’clock sound good to everyone?” He asks, and when both Calum and Luke shrug before nodding, he adds, “Feel free to pass along the invite, if you want. Food’ll be covered, but bring your own booze.”

Luke groans, throwing his head back in what _looks_ like mock annoyance, but Calum knows to actually be quite real. The guy’s a total sucker at the prospect of anything remotely free, so Calum can tell his best friend isn’t joking when he whines about not wanting to spend money on beers that someone _else_ might drink.

Calum rolls his eyes, giving Ashton a genuine smile when he says, “We’ll both be there. _With_ the booze.”

*******

Despite Calum’s continuous lectures about being a decent person for once and buying a couple cases of beer to take over to Ashton and Perrie’s place, Luke doesn’t end up bringing any booze at all. He uses some lame excuse about not wanting to bring something he wasn’t sure anyone else liked, and Calum tells him it’s total bullshit, which Luke frustratingly agrees to before calling dibs on a bottle out of Calum’s six pack. Calum’s tempted to tell him he has no right to do so, but decides better of it. Tonight, he’ll be the bigger person.

It’s a quarter past six, since Luke had insisted they show up at the same time and _also_ seems to insist on being fashionably late. They’re standing on the front porch of a domestic looking, cookie cutter two-story, and Calum’s trying really hard to visualize Ashton living in a place like this—tries to imagine Ashton in cutoff shorts and a polo as he watches Fight Night in his living room while Perrie reads on the couch beside him. He feels sort of creepy once he’s thought it, though, so he shakes his head quickly, reminds himself not to be so fucking nosy all the time.

“Do you think the bell even, like, works?” Luke asks after the second time he’s pressed the small button, and Calum just shrugs. He’s pretty sure he’d heard the thing go off behind the front door, but he thinks he can hear faint laughter, so it’s also entirely possible that everyone’s already in the backyard.

“Maybe we just go in.” Calum suggests, reaching forward and twisting the handle experimentally. It gives easily, and Luke hums before Calum pushes the door open the rest of the way.

Instantly, Calum’s hit with a wave of sweet scent, which he immediately realizes must be coming from the candle burning away on the coffee table in the front room. He smiles at how quaint Ashton’s home already is, warmly decorated in mostly browns and reds. It’s hard to associate the appearance and tasteful coordination with the manager, but when Calum looks a little closer, it _screams_ Perrie, and suddenly it makes a lot more sense.

“I didn’t even know Ashton was married until he invited us.” Luke confesses suddenly, and Calum chuckles, motioning for Luke to close the door behind them, which he does. As they start making their way down the hall, towards what Calum’s going to assume is the living room, Luke adds, “Isn’t it weird? Seeing the hidden parts of someone’s life that you weren’t even really aware existed?”

Calum bites the inside of his cheek lightly, giving Luke a soft nod. He doesn’t want to enthusiastically admit that he totally gets that feeling, that it’s the exact thought he’d had when Michael invited him over for dinner that night. So far, Calum’s pretty sure he’s one of the _only_ people that knows about Michael’s secret—besides Ashton—and he doesn’t plan on breaking Michael’s trust so early on. Doesn't plan on breaking it _ever_.

“C’mon, I think they’re out back.” Calum says quickly, changing the subject. Luke must not have been expecting a huge conversation regarding his question, since all he does is nod and start towards the sliding door that Calum assumes leads to the backyard.

Sure enough, when they open the door and step onto the back patio, the small barbecue seems to already be in full swing. Luke immediately squeezes past Calum, stealthily grabbing the case of beer from his hand and holding it up as if he’s the one that brought it when he shouts a greeting to everyone. Calum only rolls his eyes, sliding the back door shut again as he follows Luke out towards the grill Ashton’s currently manning.

He can see Ashley cheering when she sees what’s in Luke’s hands, and she gives the blond a quick hug once he’s close enough to her. Ashton doesn’t really look away from whatever he’s working on at the grill when he tells Luke there’s some coolers by the table, so he doesn’t see it when Luke simply hands the case off to Ashley before tackling Valerie into the best bear hug he can manage while she’s sitting down.

Calum smiles widely, pleased she’d been able to make it on such short notice. She’d been worried about finding a sitter when he called her the night Ashton invited him, but clearly she’d managed, since both Valerie _and_ Beau are here, seated at the table across from Perrie.

He’s concerned for the briefest of moments when he doesn’t instantly see Michael, and Calum’s surprised at how quickly his heart absolutely deflates at the prospect of the fighter not being here. He knows he’d probably still have fun without Michael, but. He knows he _definitely_ would if the man was with him.

Calum nearly jumps out of his skin when the sliding door opens again behind him, and when he turns around to see his potential killer, he’s relieved to find the familiarity of Michael’s green eyes, which are crinkled at the corners with the force of Michael’s smile.

“Fuck, you scared me.” Calum pouts. “I thought maybe you decided not to come, or something.”

Michael shakes his head. “Nah, just ran to the bathroom. You’re late, though, I thought maybe _you_ weren’t coming.” He jokes, leaning in and giving Calum a gentle kiss on the cheek. It makes Calum’s whole body go still, and his breath hitches, like everything in the world is hanging on this simple little gesture. With his lips still brushing Calum’s cheek, Michael asks, “How’re you feeling?”

Calum blushes, nodding. “I’m good. Feeling good, I mean. You?”

Michael mimics the movement, leaning back again to look at Calum more directly. He’s beaming, eyes sparkling just a bit when he says, “My aunt asked me today what I thought about her moving in. To have her take care of Mom, so I can finally move out. ‘To finally have a life of your own,’ she said.”

“You’re smiling.” Calum observes, and Michael chuckles at his simple deduction. “I’ll take it that means you were happy with her suggestion?”

Michael seems to finally question himself a bit, chewing on his bottom lip slightly as he hesitates. “Is it awful that I am, a little bit?” When Calum doesn’t say anything, he sighs. “That sounds bad. I’m not—I guess I’m not _happy_ about it, per se. Like, it’s my _mom_ , you know? But she remembers my aunt, still, better than she remembers me most days. And it’s not like I won’t be able to _see_ her anymore. I’ll just...finally be able to do things for _me_ , which is, like. Fuck. It’s incredible. Selfish, probably, but incredible.”

Calum smiles softly, reaching out to grab Michael’s hand. The second their fingers brush, Michael lets out a long breath, as if he’d been unconsciously holding it, and he gives Calum a look that reveals how lost and confused and conflicted he _really_ is. In a way he hopes is reassuring, Calum strokes his thumb over the top of Michael’s hand.

“I think it’s good, Mike.” Calum tells him, since he can tell Michael needs to hear it, or at least hear _something_. “I know how much taking care of your mom means to you, and I know your aunt does, too. She’s not taking it away from you—she’s trying to make it _easier_.”

There’s more he wants to say, more he knows Michael wants to say, too, but he doesn’t get a chance. Ashton’s seen them, now, and he’s cupping his large hands around his mouth to echo his voice as he calls, “Hey, you joining us any time soon, or what?”

Calum turns to flip the manager off, smiling widely when Ashton throws his head back with laughter. He looks at Michael apologetically, after, whispering, “Come over to mine later? We can talk some more then.”

Michael chuckles and agrees, giving Calum’s hand one final squeeze before he lets go, and Calum’s still red in the face at having been caught in a moment that had felt so private. It’s not as if the middle of the Irwin’s patio is exactly private, though, so Calum guesses he only has himself to blame for that one. And maybe Michael, too, just a little bit.

As soon as they’re close enough to the table that’s been set up near the grill and pool, Perrie jumps up out of her seat to greet Calum with a tight hug. He can’t help the surprised noise that falls past his lips, but he wraps an arm gently around her waist, returning the gesture.

When she pulls away, she rests her hands on each of Calum’s shoulders, looking at him with an excited look on her face. “I’m _so_ glad you could make it! C’mon, sit down! Valerie was just telling us about when Rocket started talking.” Beaming, she motions towards Valerie, still seated in her chair beside Beau, who’s got an arm draped casually around his fiancée’s shoulders. They both wave at him gently, and Calum smiles back.

Michael laughs from behind him, and Calum turns, intending to give him a little glare for doing so, but Perrie is already reaching over to swat at his arm in retaliation.

“Oh, shut up, would you?” Perrie snaps, but she’s fighting a smile, and there’s a sparkle in her eyes as she does so. Michael hardly seems scared of her. “Go help Ashton with the burgers, or something.”

Michael hums, grabbing Calum’s waist and pulling him back slightly, out of Perrie’s gentle grip. Calum’s body suddenly feels like it’s on fire as he does so. “Actually, I want in on this supposed baby talk. Calum, you go help with the food.”

Before Calum can open his mouth to agree nor protest, Michael is squeezing his hip sweetly and stepping around him, easily claiming one of the chairs beside Ashley. He looks comfortable there, at ease, and even though Calum wouldn’t mind sitting through stories about his sort-of-niece, cozied up to Michael’s side, the look on Perrie’s face suggests that she really _does_ want someone to go make sure Ashton doesn’t ruin dinner. And because he’s super helpful, Calum just chuckles, giving Perrie another quick hug before he starts towards the grill, ruffling Valerie’s hair as he passes her and ignoring her distressed noise afterwards.

Luke must’ve wandered over here at some point, since he’s leaned against the makeshift counter beside the grill, sipping on a beer and offering Ashton words of encouragement that clearly must not be very helpful, since Ashton keeps threatening to burn Luke’s helping on purpose. Calum can relate—Luke’s the worst, sometimes.

“Hey.” Calum greets quietly, easily sliding up beside Luke and accepting the beer Ashton hands him. “All the women are swooning over Rocket.”

Ashton turns to stare at Calum over his shoulder, giving him a confused look. “Beau and Michael, too?” He asks, just to be an ass, and Calum rolls his eyes.

“ _Swooning_ , Ashton _._ All of them.”

Luke snorts. “That’s probably because Rocket is the coolest fuckin’ kid I’ve ever met.” He waves his beer around, like that means something, or as if he’s actually made a point of some kind. He hasn’t, of course, and Calum wonders if Luke’s a bigger lightweight than he remembers, because it usually takes a lot longer for Luke to get this way.

Because he can, Calum points out, “You’ve met her _once,_ Luke.”

His best friend pouts. “Yeah, and it’s _bullshit_ that you get to be her uncle, because you’ve only met her, like, three times! Why should _you_ get to be the cool uncle? I’m just _Luke_ , and that _sucks_.”

In spite of the ridiculousness of the argument, Calum laughs. “Maybe if Val had been _your_ manager, you could’ve been Uncle Luke.”

Luke’s jaw drops, horrified. “Don’t play that card, that’s ridiculous! I _introduced_ you two!”

It’s Ashton’s turn to laugh, clearly amused by the pointless banter. He reaches out with his left hand, and without being told, Luke hands him a plate, and he and Calum watch as Ashton starts placing the finished burgers onto it. From what Calum can see, none of them are charred, so they can all rest easy.

“Since when do you even care about kids, Lu?” Calum asks, because he thinks it’s a valid question. Luke really _hasn’t_ ever cared before now, and even if he _did_ make jokes about it, Luke always drops it before it gets to this point.

Luke shrugs, looking down at his beer bottle. “I dunno. S’not, like. I don’t necessarily _want_ a kid, but. I don’t _not_ want one, either.” He says, which is news to Calum, and he laughs a bit in shock.

Ashton only scoffs at Luke’s words, though, and Calum furrows his brows, startled by the reaction. It’s probably the last thing he was expecting Ashton to do.

“You alright?” Calum asks, cautiously, but Ashton only shakes his head, remaining silent and rigid.

None of them say anything for several long moments, Luke shifting his feet uncomfortably. It’s obvious he feels like he’s misstepped, like he’s said something he shouldn’t have, and Calum feels terrible having played any part in it.

Awkwardly, Luke motions towards the table of people across the lawn, where the conversation is still lively and in full swing, and probably a lot more fun, too. Calum nods, watching as Luke slips away from the current conversation and heads over to the table.

Ashton remains silent the whole time, but as soon as he can tell Luke is gone, he turns, giving Calum an apologetic face.

“Fuck, I didn’t...I didn’t mean to be a jackass, I just...” He trails off, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. Calum can see the worry lines plaguing his friend, and he frowns, stepping closer.

“What happened?” Calum asks, more gently this time, and when Ashton finally opens his eyes again, he can see wetness in them. “Ash, c’mon. What’s wrong?”

Ashton shrugs his shoulders exaggeratedly, laughing once like he can’t really believe what he’s about to say. “I told myself I wouldn't bring it up, because it's not like this is the time or place, but—but then Luke went and started talking about wanting a kid or whatever, and I'm—um—Perrie’s fuckin’ pregnant?”

He phrases it like a question, like he’s unsure of the way he feels about that fact, and Calum can almost _feel_ the whole world come to a standstill in that moment. It’s not even something that impacts him directly—not tremendously, anyway—but he can still feel waves of what must be sympathy rolling off of him.

“Is...is that bad?” Calum wonders, and instantly, Ashton shakes his head.

"God, no, it’s.” Ashton smiles, looking like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to do so, then runs a hand through his hair. Calum can see his wedding ring glisten when he does so, caught by one of the yard lights. “It’s _something_ , but it’s not _bad_. It’s just that, like, she wants a baby so bad, y’know? She always has.”

Calum hums, glancing over at the table across the way. Perrie’s got her head thrown back, laughing at something it looks like Ashley’s said, and maybe it's just the knowledge he has now, but she really _is_ kind of glowing.

“What about you?” He asks.

Ashton looks away, and Calum can see just how _torn_ he is about the whole thing. How confused he must be.

“I was open to the idea since day one. It wasn’t a priority for me the way it was for her, but I wasn’t _against_ it. We never could've been together if I was—that's how much having kids meant to her. _Means_ to her.” Ashton explains, kicking at a chip in the grout between the stones of the patio below them. “We’ve been trying for a year. And now she’s finally got the thing she always wanted, and I’m fuckin’ _panicking_ , Calum. I’m freaking the fuck out. I—I’m going _crazy_ in my own head, wondering why it's taking me so long to get as excited about it as she is.”

Calum feels his heart ache, watching when Ashton wipes at one of his eyes quickly, playing it off as an itch, or something, even though Calum knows he’s trying to dry any tears before it becomes obvious that they’re even there.

“Hey, man,” Calum starts, “it’s alright. It’s gonna be fine, yeah?”

Ashton nods, before sighing heavily. “I know it is. She’s gonna be so wonderful, _such_ a great mom.” Sounding like he’s in some kind of shock, he adds, “I don’t think she’s said anything to him yet, but she’s already decided she wants to make Mike one of the baby’s godparents. Which is, like, crazy, right? Is she even supposed to have made that decision yet?”

Ashton looks slightly hysterical, and Calum isn’t really thinking about it when he sets down his beer and opens his arms. He’s still not thinking when he pulls Ashton in for a tight embrace, but he’s surprised when Ashton doesn’t even tease him for it, only returns the tight squeeze and tries to be subtle when he sniffles.

“You’re gonna be a great parent, too, okay?” Calum whispers to him, because he’s certain that’s what Ashton’s been needing to hear, and his suspicions are confirmed when Ashton relaxes significantly. “Both of you, together. You and Perrie. You’re gonna make a fantastic team, just like I'm sure you always have.”

Calum keeps on hugging him, no matter how many times he considers pulling away in fear of Luke catching him and picking on him for it. It’s worth it, for now, since it’s the most he can really do, and it’s successfully calming Ashton down.

When Ashton finally starts pulling back, Calum gives him an encouraging smile, and Ashton rolls his eyes fondly, like he can’t believe they just did that, either.

“You mean that?” Ashton asks quietly, still seeming uncertain.

While Calum can’t necessarily guarantee much of anything in this world, he’s definitely confident in himself when he answers, “It’s gonna work out, man. You’re gonna be okay.”

And when Ashton beams afterwards and says, “You will be, too, kid,” Calum’s somewhat inclined to believe him.

*******

Beau and Valerie end up being the first to leave, much to everyone’s dismay, but especially to Perrie’s. She doesn’t seem to be _nearly_ done with interrogating the pair on raising their baby, and as sweet as it is of her, Calum can’t ever stop himself from giving Ashton careful glances every now and then, just to gauge his reaction to the subject.

Ashton starts looking better about halfway through dinner, which is good. Calum can see the lingering tension in his body sort of dissipate, finally, and when the manager lets himself relax into the conversation that Perrie has so blatantly turned towards kids, he doesn’t look like he’s about to scream out of sheer panic alone anymore.

Ashley heads out next, insisting that she’s only had a beer or two so she’s totally good to drive herself. Even so, Luke jumps to his feet the second she mentions leaving, swaying on the spot even as he offers to take the responsibility of helping her home. She rolls her eyes, but waves him along, mentioning that his apartment is on her way home and she’ll just drop him off.

And later, once the remaining four of them have taken their conversation into the living room, Calum yawns and announces it’s getting kind of late. He can’t help but smile to himself when Michael’s entire body perks up, looking down at his own watch while he tries to play his eagerness off. Calum’s positive that Ashton and Perrie read right through it, but they don’t say a thing aside from a few friendly goodbyes as Calum heads out to his car.

He hasn’t even fastened his seatbelt yet when his phone chimes, and when he looks down at the device to read the message he’s gotten, he can’t help but chuckle.

_We still on for tonight? We never finished talking x_

Trying to keep his smile at bay, even though nobody is around to witness his embarrassing fondness, Calum sends Michael his address and tells him to come over whenever.


	13. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry for the delay on this. I've had a crazy past few days, but I thank you for being patient!
> 
> That being said, I think chapters may start to slow down just a bit :/ I'm still going to try to keep updating once every 7-10 days, but there's really no promises. I'm at the point where the fic caught up to me and I have to start writing each chapter as I post them instead of having several stockpiled up and ready to go lmao. Hopefully it all works out and y'all stick with me!!
> 
> Also this is where some of the reason for that lovely Sexual Content tag comes in so enjoy you horny bastards

_Whenever_ only ends up being about thirty minutes after Calum gets home, which means Michael probably forced himself to stay at Ashton’s for nearly another hour after Calum dipped out. He knows Michael likely did so to play it cool, but even Calum knows there’s absolutely no way Ashton and Perrie didn’t pick up on how anxious Michael was to get out of there.

The second Calum opens his front door, Michael is beaming, stepping forward into his space and pulling Calum into a tight hug. It’s welcomed, of course, but Calum still can’t help but blush at the overt display of affection Michael’s giving him right now. As if all their kissing isn’t _more_ affectionate than this one embrace.

“Missed you.” Michael murmurs, and Calum laughs before he pulls away so that he can shut his front door that’s still wide open.

“It’s only been an hour.” Calum points out, and Michael shrugs like that fact doesn’t really mean anything to him, like he would’ve missed Calum even if it had only been _minutes_.

Without responding, Michael turns, starting to venture a bit further into Calum’s apartment. He looks around, taking it all in, and Calum feels as if he should be upset about Michael snooping around like this, but strangely enough, it doesn’t seem as much like snooping as it probably would if it were anybody else.

Clearing his throat, Calum asks, “Can I get you anything? Tea? More beer?”

Michael glances at Calum over his shoulder, chuckling a bit when Calum mentions the beer. “No, no more booze for me.” He looks back towards the entertainment center, at the small stack of taped UFC reruns on Calum’s coffee table, and Calum can actually _see_ it when Michael’s shoulders tense.

He’s not sure why it makes his chest ache.

“On second thought,” Michael says, “some tea would be really nice.”

Calum gives him a soft smile and nods, caressing Michael’s arm for a moment as he passes the fighter on his way to the kitchen. It makes his heart pound when Michael leans into the touch, even though it’s just for a _second_ , and Calum wills it to be still.

While the water boils, Calum gets down two mugs from the cupboard, watching Michael from his kitchen in silence. Michael doesn’t seem to have a whole lot to say, anyway, since he’s decided to sit down on Calum’s couch and look through one of the old novels sitting on the end table nearest him. Calum thinks that the novel had probably belonged to Mali, something she had given him before he moved out to LA, and he only truly realizes that fact once Michael opens the book to the first page, where Calum distinctly remembers Mali having written a short little letter to him about following his dreams and staying in touch.

He watches as Michael reads his sister’s words, and he watches as Michael sets the book down afterwards, not asking about it because he’s realized it’s something private, something Calum will tell him when the timing is right.

Calum nearly collapses at the sincerity of it. At how Michael can be so _good_.

Both of them startle when the kettle begins to whistle, Calum more so, and he removes the pot from the stove before pouring the water into both mugs and dropping a tea bag in each of them. He stirs them silently, and once the water has changed color, he carries both mugs over to where Michael is sitting in the living room.

Michael thanks him when he grabs his mug, taking a deep sniff and humming happily afterwards. It looks like something out of a commercial, and Calum can’t help but laugh, even when Michael pouts at him for doing so.

“It’s lemon balm, I hope that’s okay.” Calum says. “Normally I have chamomile, which is probably better, but—”

“Lemon balm is _fine_ , Cal. Thank you.” Michael interrupts, winking at him in a way that tells Calum he doesn’t always need to apologize for every little thing.

Calum blushes, sitting down on the couch and not bothering to leave any space between them. It’s pointless to do so, because he knows he’ll only end up feeling desperate to be closer to Michael before much more than two minutes go by if he does.

Michael doesn’t seem to have any qualms about it, his free hand finding Calum’s thigh the second he’s sat down beside him. Calum’s skin tingles under Michael’s touch, but he hardly minds.

“Do you think you’re gonna accept your aunt’s offer?” Calum inquires, resisting the urge to squirm when Michael’s thumb starts mindlessly tracing over his thigh, just barely brushing the inseam on his jeans.

Michael hums, taking a small sip of his tea and closing his eyes as he swallows it. Calum finds it hard to look away from him, mesmerized by fucking _everything_ Michael does.

“I think probably, yeah, I will.” Michael says, shrugging. “It’s just a little bit...strange, y’know? I’m scared to leave her.”

Calum’s heart cracks a bit at those words, and he settles a hand over Michael’s on his thigh, stilling the movements of Michael’s thumb. The sudden touch has Michael startling, looking down at their clasped hands with a fond little smile on his face that Calum doesn’t think he even realizes is there. Which.

“I’m not going to tell you not to be scared, but I _know_ she’ll be alright. Your aunt wants the best for Karen as much as you do.” Calum assures him, squeezing Michael’s hand and reveling in the way Michael turns it over to squeeze him right back.

“Yeah, I know that, too.” Michael says distantly. “I’m just, like, worried?”

“Why?” Calum frowns, setting his tea down on the coffee table in front of them. Enjoying it doesn’t feel like such a priority anymore. “I mean, about what?”

Michael keeps looking down at their hands, his jaw rigid, and Calum doesn’t think there’s anything he can do to make it easier. The thought that he can’t help the boy that’s beginning to mean so much makes him feel weak, useless.

“It’s just been Mom and I living in that house since my father left. My aunt’s always been a help, but she’s never _lived_ there.” Michael explains, before he sighs, and when he speaks again, he sounds choked. “I’m fuckin’ terrified that moving out will make Mom forget me even faster than she’s already starting to.”

Michael’s hand trembles slightly, and Calum gasps, pulling their clasped hands up to his lips and kissing Michael’s knuckles softly in a way that he hopes reassures Michael that while he may not understand his pain, he’s still _here_. He hates that he can’t even tell Michael it’ll be okay, because the reality of Michael’s fear is true. Eventually, Karen _will_ worsen, and she probably _will_ start to forget Michael more quickly.

When Calum pulls back, he notices that Michael’s knuckles aren’t as bruised as they usually are, since they started to lay off the hard sparring almost a week ago in order to give Michael’s body some time to heal before his fight. Clearly they’re still tender, though, since the light contact from Calum’s lips makes Michael whimper, but Calum realizes the sound might’ve been caused by something else entirely as soon as Michael sets his mug down on the end table and pulls their hands apart so he can cup Calum’s face and kiss his mouth with everything he’s got.

Calum makes a shocked noise in the back of his throat, but the surprise doesn’t last long before he gets his bearings and kisses Michael back. Despite the roughness Michael had initially come in with, the kiss is gentle, a possible _thank_ _you_ , and Calum hopes that the way he kisses Michael pours out every variation of _I care about you so much_ there is. Because _fuck_ , does he care about Michael.

He cares about Michael so much it’s a little bit _terrifying_ , because he hasn’t felt like this about anyone in ages. Not in the last three years, and probably not even for a couple of years _before_ his accident. He can’t remember the last time the world faded away when someone kissed him, and he sure as hell can’t remember the last time even _looking_ at someone made his entire _being_ ache with the desire to never have to see that someone in pain.

When he pulls away, a soft “Shit, Mike,” escapes him, and Michael’s breath fans out over his lips when the fighter chuckles a bit.

Calum keeps his eyes closed, even when Michael asks, “You alright?”

“Yeah.” Calum whispers back. “You’re just—you’re so—”

He’s not sure what he’s allowed to say in this moment. He’s not sure what will send Michael running, not sure what will make Michael kiss him again.

But apparently, his inability to form words doesn’t matter, since Michael’s suddenly pressing his lips to Calum’s forehead in that same way he did at the gym a couple weeks ago.

“I know.” Michael murmurs, lips brushing against Calum’s skin with every word. “Me too.”

With a sense of newfound bravery, Calum says, “I like you so much.” He doesn’t think he needs to tack on how much that fact scares him, since his voice shakes enough as it is.

Michael doesn’t say anything, but probably, he doesn’t really need to.

Calum’s pretty sure that the way Michael clasps their hands together and kisses the corner of his mouth so delicately it’s like Michael’s afraid to break him speaks volumes all on its own.

“Do, um.” Calum starts, clearing his throat when Michael continues to leave soft kisses over his cheek, just above his jaw line. It momentarily distracts him, leaves him scrambling to remember how to breathe, but then Michael’s humming his encouragement for Calum to continue, and Calum comes back to himself. “Did you want to spend the night?”

Michael stops moving his mouth, and Calum winces, ridiculing himself for fucking it up so quickly after such an incredible moment. It was going so well, he shouldn’t have taken so many liberties. Just because Michael probably likes him at least half as much as Calum likes him doesn’t mean he’s going to want to spend the fucking _night_. Christ.

Calum sputters. “I just mean, because, like. It’s a long drive home? But _shit_ , you probably have to get back to Karen, don’t you? I’m sorry, it was stupid to ask, I’ll just—”

Michael laughs, shaking his head as he pulls back to create more space between them, which, really, only makes Calum even more desperate to make a smooth recovery. Only makes him doubt asking his question that much more.

“Cal, chill out, yeah?” Michael asks on the tail end of a chuckle, and Calum holds his breath, since that’s all he can bring himself to do.

When Michael reaches out to brush one of Calum’s stray curls back into place, Calum finally lets himself exhale, but it sounds only slightly less nervous than he feels. His stomach is in knots, waiting to hear what Michael has to say.

“I was just surprised you asked, is all. I didn’t want to assume I was invited, obviously, but I was sort of hoping you’d let me stay over.” Michael admits, allowing the pads of his fingers to trail along Calum’s cheek before he brings them back to rest in his own lap. Calum has to consciously remind himself not to actually whine out loud at the loss of contact.

“It’s really late.” Calum says stupidly. “So you should stay. I don’t want you to fall asleep at the wheel, or something.”

Michael smiles. “Sweet of you.”

Michael gives him a look, then, something that Calum isn’t entirely sure how to describe. It feels like something incredibly _honest_ , though, something _real_ and even just a little bit terrifying. The weight of it on him makes Calum’s skin feel hot all over, makes him feel like he can’t sit still anymore.

“I can take the couch.” Calum suddenly offers, and Michael’s eyes widen, clearly surprised.

“What?” Michael asks, bewildered, before he shakes his head. “No, Cal, don’t be ridiculous, it’s your house. I’ll take the couch.”

Calum raises a hand to silence him. “You’re the one with the big fight tomorrow. Really, I want you to take the bed, okay? You deserve to get the best rest. Don’t make me beg you to.”

Michael chews on his bottom lip, looking like he’s itching to say something about it, or like maybe he’s tempted _to_ make Calum beg. Which is something, but not something for right now, probably.

“Okay.” Michael agrees, reaching towards the end table and grabbing his still steaming mug of tea. He curls his feet up under himself, cupping the mug with both hands, and making it rather obvious that he won’t be moving from his spot on the sofa for quite some time. His effort to stake claim on the couch is admirable, Calum will give him that, but Calum can wait Michael out just as easily.

“M’gonna have a shower.” Calum says, grabbing his own mug before he starts down the hall. Michael doesn’t say anything after him, just smirks and waves him off when Calum adds, “You’d better not be sitting there when I get out.”

*******

To be fair, Michael _isn’t_ still sitting on the couch when Calum emerges from the shower fifteen minutes later. Calum will give him that.

It’s worse this way, though, Calum thinks, and he sort of wishes now that Michael _had_ stayed on the couch, because the sight of Michael Clifford sprawled out half asleep on his bed, t-shirt discarded and wearing a pair of Calum’s sweatpants he'd clearly found and decided to borrow is too much for himself to handle. It’s a sight that makes his heart fucking _race_ , more than ever, and Calum’s suddenly super self conscious about the fact that he’s only in a pair of his boxers.

The only light in the bedroom is coming from the adjoining bathroom, still mostly blocked by Calum’s body and casting shadows over the pale skin of Michael’s back.

He swallows. As if even just having Michael sleeping in the other room wasn’t enough, now Calum’s faced head on with _this_.

He tries to be quiet when he flicks off the bathroom light, tiptoeing across the floor to the bedroom door so that he can slip out and go sleep on the couch like he never even saw any of this. But of course, luck isn’t (or maybe _is_ ) on his side, and he can hear it when Michael shifts on the bed, when Michael turns slightly to face him in the dark.

“Lay down with me.” Michael says, and even though they could both easily play the words off as a suggestion, Calum will admit that it doesn’t feel like one so much as it does a _demand_.

Calum’s too fucking weak.

He turns, hands awkwardly hanging by his side as he debates digging around in his dresser for a pair of pajama pants to make him feel a little less exposed.

Clearly, he takes too long to make that decision, since he hears Michael make an impatient noise before the obvious sound of someone patting the bed fills the room. “C’mon,” Michael says, “I don’t bite. S’just to sleep, yeah? We both deserve to sleep well.”

The justification makes Calum’s heart slow down a bit, and too easily he’s walking over to the unoccupied side of the bed, not bothering with pulling back the sheets as he flops down onto his stomach. Michael’s curled on his side, facing him, which Calum can only see because his eyes are finally starting to adjust to the dark.

“Thanks.” Calum says.

Michael snorts. “It’s _your_ bed. In _your_ home. I should be thanking you.”

Calum hums, closing his eyes. He can feel the beginnings of tiredness creeping up behind them, but it’s not enough yet, and he’s almost thankful when Michael begins speaking again.

“I haven’t watched Payne fight yet.” Michael tells him conversationally, and Calum props his head up, resting it on his arms so he can look at Michael better as he talks about who must be his competitor. “I know I should, because it would’ve helped in training, but. I couldn’t make myself do it.”

Calum gives Michael a little half smile, even though he’s not sure if Michael can see it all that well. “I get it. Knowing almost feels worse, sometimes.”

Michael nods, fingers tracing over Calum’s sheets absentmindedly. “Did you ever watch Philippou? Y’know, before?” He asks.

Calum winces, but it doesn’t feel as awful as it usually does every time someone brings up his name. Calum wonders if maybe it gets a little bit easier to hear the more often he’s forced to listen to it being spoken out loud.

“I did.” Calum says. “And I thought I had it in the bag because of that. I was nervous, of course, but I thought the match was _mine_. Maybe that wasn’t so great, after all.”

Michael makes a thoughtful noise, going quiet again. Even though it’s dark and Calum can’t really see it as well as he could in the light, Calum feels it when Michael tenses up, can practically feel the stress and worry swirling around in Michael’s body.

“You’re not scared about tomorrow, are you?” Calum asks.

Michael shakes his head. “Scared, no. Nervous as all hell? Yeah.”

“What’re you nervous about?”

At that, Michael pauses, his teeth sinking down on his bottom lip and worrying away at the flesh until Calum can tell it’s gone raw. It takes everything he has not to reach up and coax the boy’s lip free, swipe his thumb over it and tell him to be gentler on himself since nobody else in this world will be.

“A better question is what am I _not_ nervous about?” Michael restates, rolling over onto his back and staring up at the ceiling fan whirring above them. Calum keeps looking at Michael, at his silhouette in the dark. “There’s—there’s just so much hanging on what happens tomorrow. Career-wise, I mean.”

Calum nods, because he gets it. Ashton’s made a point of making sure everyone involved in Michael’s training the past three months knew how much was at stake with this fight. That doesn’t mean Calum thinks Michael isn’t justified in being nervous, though. He knows how much Michael _really_ cares, despite how much the boy tried to pretend like he didn’t towards the beginning of all this.

“I know.” Calum says.

Michael fidgets, like the anxiety building up in him forces him to move a bit in an attempt to get it out. It makes Calum frown—he hates seeing Michael so uneasy.

“It could make or break my stats, Cal. My pay, too, _and_ my sponsors. It’s fuckin’ nerve-wracking. I feel like I’m gonna explode, all the time.” Michael confesses, and Calum makes a point of ignoring the way Michael’s voice wavers, unsteady. He knows Michael wouldn’t want him to draw attention to it—not right now, anyway.

“No one ever tells you that playing a professional sport is so blatantly _never_ about the sport.” Michael says after a long minute, and Calum doesn’t think he’s ever heard a truer statement. Of all the things they’ve discussed tonight, Calum can relate to that the most. He’d learned that lesson the hard way, after moving across the country to pursue what he loved only to discover that all the bullshit involved with professional sports made him love it a little less every day.

Not enough to notice, at first. But enough so that Calum’s now able to feel and recognize the hole left in his heart as a result of it.

“I know.” Calum repeats, reaching over and wrapping his fingers around Michael’s forearm that’s draped across his bare stomach. He tries to focus on stroking his thumb over Michael’s wrist rather than how the tips of his fingers are just barely touching the skin of Michael’s abdomen, how he can feel the rise and fall of it with each of Michael’s breaths. “You worked hard these last few months, though. I believe in you.”

Michael makes a soft noise, looking down at Calum’s hand before he turns his head to the side to give Calum a genuine, flattered smile.

“Thank you, Cal.” Michael breathes. “For everything.” His words sound so _honest_ , and it takes Calum by total surprise when the fighter leans forward and presses his forehead against Calum’s, unprompted. It’s probably a silent reiteration of his thanks, but it feels too intimate, and Calum finds himself sucking in a deep breath, holding it in until he thinks his lungs might collapse from it.

When he realizes that Michael isn’t going to make another move, that he’s giving Calum the chance to back out or take it further, Calum decides to lean forward, too, and he presses a small, gentle kiss to Michael’s lips. He’s testing the waters, curious to see how much Michael is willing to let him take.

Which, apparently, is a lot. Michael goes completely pliant underneath Calum’s mouth, tilting his head to the side and parting his lips encouragingly. The vulnerability Michael’s giving him makes Calum almost whimper, reach his hand that had been around Michael’s wrist up to caress the fighter’s face.

He can feel Michael’s body shifting, and with his eyes closed he can’t tell if it’s in discomfort or not, so Calum slowly opens his eyes and forces himself to pull back a couple inches. From what he can tell, though, Michael’s far from uncomfortable, his chest quickly rising and falling with his heavy breaths and an unmistakable flush creeping up to his cheeks.

Silently, Calum smiles at him, and Michael chuckles before he reaches out with both arms, hands wrapping around Calum’s neck as Michael pulls him closer. Calum almost gasps in surprise, though he follows Michael’s prompting easily, allows himself to press his bare chest against Michael’s own, paler one.

Michael makes a strange noise as soon as their bodies are touching, his legs squirming in that same way they had before. When he leans in to kiss Calum again, it’s rougher, and Calum isn’t expecting to feel Michael’s teeth nipping at his bottom lip, no matter how welcome the action is.

Michael’s hands don’t move far from where they’d been crossed behind Calum’s neck, though he does slowly begin to run them down Calum’s back. The sensation is nice and comforting, but when Calum slides his tongue past Michael’s lips and is rewarded with a soft moan and blunt nails digging into his spine, it goes from _nice_ to _incredible_.

Without truly meaning to, Calum’s hips rock forward against Michael’s thigh, and mortification runs through his whole body when Michael makes a surprised noise afterwards. Calum wants to pull away, to roll over onto his other side and tell Michael it’s time they get some sleep, but then Michael’s dragging his nails over Calum’s back once more, and Calum involuntarily fucks forward again.

Humiliated, Calum pulls his head back, burying it in Michael’s shoulder and willing his heart to still, or for his dick to calm down. He’s half hard already, and he’s not sure whether that’s because he hasn’t been kissed like this in years, or if it’s because it’s _Michael_ who’s kissing him like this.

He pulls his hips back, keeping them angled away from Michael’s body, but it’s practically useless, since the second Michael lowers one hand to his hip and tugs, Calum’s pliantly bringing them back to rock against Michael’s thigh yet again.

It feels shameful, almost, and he makes an embarrassing noise into the bare skin of Michael’s shoulder. All they were doing was _kissing_ —until Calum had to go and make it _weird_ , had to go and let himself get turned on like this.

“M’sorry.” Calum murmurs. His eyes are still squeezed shut, too scared to pull away and look at what kind of face Michael might be making. Too scared that it might be one of disgust, or rejection.

He feels Michael’s thumb stroking over his hipbone, and Calum’s hand darts out to squeeze at Michael’s waist desperately. He’s not sure if a s _top_ or a _don’t stop_ is lingering on his tongue, but when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a weak moan.

“Cal,” Michael’s suddenly whispering, voice husky and deep and unlike Calum’s ever heard it before. “Look at me, Calum.”

At the instruction, Calum forces himself to pull away from Michael’s shoulder, and it takes a few moments of deep breathing before he allows himself to look up at Michael through his lashes.

Thankfully, Michael isn’t giving him a look that’s anything _close_ to disgust or rejection. Instead, Michael’s staring at him with eyes that’ve gone dark, pupils almost completely blown. His lips are cherry red and already looking swollen, and Calum has to fight with himself not to reach out and touch over the bottom one, just for the sake of seeing how Michael might react to it.

“I fucked it up.” Calum says. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, I’m—”

Michael cuts him off. “Stop apologizing.” His thumb is relentless, continuing to rub comforting little circles over Calum’s hip. It’s the smallest gesture, but Calum has to close his eyes and force himself to focus on anything but the feeling of it. “It’s okay, you know.”

Calum peeks his eyes open. “What’s oka— _oh_.” He breathes, letting his forehead fall forward against Michael’s when he feels the man’s thigh start overtly grinding up between Calum’s. It feels so good his own legs start to shake, and he can't stop himself from releasing wet little gasps against Michael’s open mouth with every bit of incredible friction against his crotch.

“Mike.” Calum gasps, body seemingly unsure if it wants to grind forward against Michael’s thigh or run like hell away from it.

Michael’s rough hand grabs at the side of Calum’s face, and Calum swears the touch alone is what makes him cry out, rather than the firm pressure Michael’s giving him to rut down against. “Open your eyes, babe. Gotta stop closing them on me.”

Calum makes a frustrated sound, angry at himself for continually trying to isolate himself from the situation. It’s obvious that Michael wants him back—he has no need to try and hide himself away. It’s just that it’s been so long since Calum’s done this with someone. He’s not as confident as he used to be when it comes to things like this.

He opens his eyes, and when he does, Michael rewards him with a short kiss. With their lips still pressed against one another, Michael whispers, “I want to, if you want to. Just gotta tell me, Calum. Tell me if you want to.”

Calum whimpers, but he’s nodding before Michael’s even finished talking, gasping out a “Yes” that breaks down the middle with how floaty his head has gone. Michael makes a sound like a growl as soon as Calum’s said it, not daring to be gentle as he slams their lips together more surely.

The way Michael’s hands carefully roam all over his body is an incredible contrast to the way he kisses, and Calum whines against Michael’s mouth when the fighter _so fucking gently_ pushes Calum down and onto his back, and then again when he encourages Calum to spread his legs so that he can lay himself down in between them.

Calum doesn’t feel comfortable in very many places. But here in his bed, trapped below Michael Clifford who’s now kissing at his jaw like he’ll _die_ if he stops, Calum feels more at ease than he’s felt _anywhere_ in the last three years.

Unsure what to do with his hands, Calum trails them down Michael’s bare sides, bringing them to rest in the dip at the base of Michael’s spine, smiling to himself when he feels Michael shiver against him afterwards. The fighter’s lips are still gingerly making their way along his jaw, gradually transferring onto the taut skin of Calum’s neck, but as soon as Calum gets the guts to lower his hands further and rest his palms over the curve of Michael’s ass, Michael actually bites down. He soothes the sting with his tongue afterwards, like he’s sorry for the pain he may have caused, but Calum’s already arching his neck up for more, whimpering in shock.

“How do you feel?” Michael asks softly, lips barely brushing Calum’s skin as he speaks.

Having Michael’s body plastered to nearly every single inch of him has Calum a little sidetracked, taking longer to think of a response, and all he comes up with is: “What?”

Michael chuckles, pulling back and pushing up onto his palms, keeping himself an arms length away. Calum almost reprimands him for it. “I said, how do you feel? As in—” He holds himself up with one toned arm, uses his free fingers to trail along the exposed skin of Calum’s weaker shoulder, “—how does this feel?”

Calum considers that, chewing on the inside of his mouth as he tries to focus on every single nerve in his shoulder. He squints, shrugging it and squirming a bit to see if any of the usual troublemaking movements cause him any discomfort, and when they don’t, Calum’s almost entirely sure that this whole evening has been just a lovely dream. Because that doesn’t just _happen_ —he isn’t ever just suddenly _pain free_.

But it _can’t_ be a dream, he reminds himself, because Michael’s fingers on him are _real_ , and so is the way Michael’s looking down at him like he’s afraid of doing anything to hurt him.

“I’m.” Calum croaks, and Michael frowns. With the hand that had been touching his shoulder, Michael reaches up, wiping away dampness from underneath Calum’s eye that Calum hadn’t even realized was _there_.

“You’re what?”

Calum laughs, watery and in disbelief. “I’m _fine_? I’m…” He rolls his shoulder again, just to be sure, and when no waves of absolute _misery_ wash over him, Calum releases a surprised sob. “Fuck, it doesn’t—it feels _fine_. I’m _good_. Maybe just for right now, but I’m—I’m fuckin’ _good_.”

Michael smiles, so wide his eyes crinkle around the corners. He leans down, kisses Calum’s mouth with closed lips so hard it feels like it probably _bruises_. Calum can feel himself shaking, overwhelmed with relief and surprise, and it doesn’t help matters when Michael ever so gently flutters a series of comforting kisses over Calum’s shoulder.

“You’re good.” Michael repeats, but he’s not grinning anymore. Instead, he’s dropping down onto his elbows, bracketing Calum in closer until their chests are together and their hips angled apart, but Calum doesn’t feel like he can’t breathe properly as much as he did before. It’s like the closer Michael gets to him, the easier it comes.

It seems almost hesitant when Michael shifts his legs slightly, making himself more comfortable, but it’s Calum who caves—it’s _Calum_ who wraps his legs around Michael’s waist and digs his heels into the small of his back. It’s Calum who pulls Michael’s hips into his with the strength of his calves, and it’s Michael who cracks first, smothering his moan by kissing hard at Calum’s neck.

“Cal.” Michael murmurs into his skin, but it doesn’t seem like he intends to follow it up with anything.

Calum just hums, keeping his legs where they are before arching his back a bit to roll their hips together again. This time, he’s the one that moans, but he can feel when Michael bites down on the hollow of his throat, like he’s trying to quiet himself.

“I-is this too much?” Calum wonders aloud, and Michael shakes his head.

Michael pulls back again—which Calum makes a reminder for himself to formally complain to Michael about, he’s done it so much tonight—and reiterates, “No. No, s’good. Did you, um.” He clears his throat, blushing. “How far did you want to go?”

Calum feels his face go all hot, probably mimicking the redness in Michael’s cheeks. It’s like being transported back to high school, all the awkward fumbling and cut off sounds and nervous conversation. At the same time, though, it’s admirable. He sort of loves that Michael can just _tell_ how Calum’s still a bit out of his element.

But Michael looks that way, too, and Calum feels a little upset with himself for not having noticed before now.

“What do _you_ want?” Calum redirects, and Michael bites on his bottom lip.

“I’d be fine if you said to stop here,” Michael says as he reaches up, brushing away some of Calum’s curls that have matted to his forehead thanks to the growing heat in the bedroom. “But I really hope you don’t want to do that.”

He looks embarrassed to admit it, but Calum just chuckles, cupping Michael’s cheeks before arching up to kiss him quickly. When he pulls back, Michael’s eyes are closed and there’s a blissful little smile on his face. Calum coaxes his eyes open with a stroke of his thumb over the fighter’s cheekbone, and then he whispers: “Take your pants off.”

Michael sputters, but nods eagerly, and Calum has to focus almost all his attention on not allowing himself to giggle. It’s difficult not to, though, watching as Michael leans back until he’s standing at the foot of the bed, fumbling with the strings at the front of the pajama pants he’d borrowed. Once he gets the knot undone, it’s with only slightly steadier hands that he starts to pull the pants down over his hips.

And really, the way Calum’s mouth literally _waters_ the second that Michael’s pants are only halfway off is probably the most humiliating thing to happen to him in the bedroom department, like, _ever_ , but. He also can’t really blame himself. It’s been a long time since he’s had _anything_ like this, and with someone as beautiful as Michael standing naked at the foot of his bed, Calum’s suddenly aware of just _how_ long it’s been.

His cock gives a desperate twitch in his boxers.

“Fuck,” someone says, and for a long moment Calum thinks he’s the one that’s said it, which is just awful, really.

But when he sees the way Michael’s eyes are hungrily roaming all over him, Calum realizes Michael’s probably seen it happen, seen how Calum’s body unconsciously reacts to just _watching_ Michael bare all. Calum almost doesn’t even want to _think_ about what would happen if he got his _hands_ on the fighter.

Almost.

“Shit, c’mere. Please.” Calum whimpers, and Michael smirks, falling forward onto his hands and knees so he can crawl back up the bed to where Calum’s impatiently waiting for him, his legs spread out in a lazy V.

“Your turn, yeah?” Michael suggests, but there’s a hint to his voice that reminds Calum it’s _just_ that—a suggestion. Calum’s starting to love how thoughtful Michael is in bed. And in general, really. Michael’s wonderful.

“Yeah.” Calum agrees, bringing his legs back together so that Michael can curl his fingers under the waistband of Calum’s boxers. The press of Michael’s fingers into the dips of his hipbones makes Calum shiver with sensitivity, and if the way Michael keeps lingering in that spot is anything to go by, the reaction doesn’t go unnoticed. “Mike, c’mon, don’t tease.”

Michael chuckles. “That’s the best part, though. Love seein’ you blush.” He repeats the motion again, and Calum shudders, reaching up to shove weakly at Michael’s chest.

“M’not _blushing_.” Calum insists, even though the redness taking over his skin says otherwise. Michael seems tempted to point that out, his eyebrow quirked, but Calum just shakes his head. “Whatever. Just take my clothes off, would you?”

Michael smirks, using one hand to give Calum a little salute before he sits back, hooking his fingers under the waistband more surely before he starts to finally tug them down for real. The drag of the cotton over his sensitive thighs makes Calum’s legs twitch, and then again when it passes over his calves.

“Holy hell.” Michael mumbles absently, like it was meant to stay inside his head. He tosses Calum’s boxers to the floor, using his now freed hands to run his fingers up Calum’s thighs, then back down again, before he repeats the process all over. “You’re so beautiful, Cal.”

Calum’s heart stutters, but he rolls his eyes nonetheless. “Shut up.”

“I’m being serious.” Michael says firmly, and Calum swallows dryly. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. All hard and muscled all over, but I know how soft you really are. Love that.”

“I’m not soft.” Calum frowns, but it transforms into a dropped jaw when Michael climbs back up his body. Instead of lying between Calum’s legs again, Michael throws his thighs over each side of Calum’s hips, and Calum gasps sharply at the sparks of pleasure that jump from nerve to nerve all over his body at the feeling of Michael’s cock slotting perfectly beside his own.

He regrets looking down between their stomachs, because the contrast of their skin so close together, so _intimate_ , has his stomach twisting in the _best_ possible way.

“Sure you’re not.” Michael teases, stroking one finger along Calum’s jaw before he stops it right underneath the man’s chin. “M’gonna kiss you now, okay? And this time I’m not gonna stop.”

Calum exhales shakily. “Good. Don’t want you to stop.”

Michael smiles, falling down onto his forearms that are bracketing both sides of Calum’s head once more. And truthfully, Calum loves the feeling of being enclosed like this, of Michael blocking him from even _seeing_ the outside world, because it just reminds him further that it’s only the two of them here right now. Nothing else matters outside of this moment, and Calum’s perfectly okay with that.

True to his word, Michael slots their lips together, and from the get-go Calum can tell he really _doesn’t_ show any signs of stopping. Not unless Calum shoves him away, which Calum isn’t keen on doing, either.

Instead, Calum just wraps an arm around Michael’s neck to keep him close, his other hand holding onto Michael’s bicep like he’s afraid he’ll float away if he doesn’t grip onto _something_. Michael’s fingers find their way into Calum’s hair not long after, tugging slightly enough that Calum’s mouth drops open on a gasp and his head tilts back, offering up as much as he possibly can.

Calum doesn’t think it can get better than this.

And then Michael grinds his hips down.

It seems like Michael almost didn’t even _mean_ to do it, but as soon as it’s been done, both of them are groaning into each other’s mouths, like neither of them were expecting something so simple to feel so _good_. But it _did_ , and it feels even _better_ when Michael does it again, biting down on Calum’s lip when Calum works his own hips upwards.

“God, _Cal_.” Michael whispers breathlessly, bumping their noses together before he finally lets his eyes open. Calum’s have been widened since Michael first ground down, and the moment green meets brown, Calum’s whimpering helplessly, like even _looking_ at Michael while they do this is too much.

But the truth is, Calum’s mostly just scared of how _close_ he already is, and Michael’s hardly even fucking _touched_ him.

“I’m just gonna—” Michael starts, giving Calum one more quick kiss before he breaks his promise and pulls back a few inches. It’s just far enough to create some space between their torsos, and Michael uses that space to sneak a hand down between them and wrap his callused palm around both their dicks.

Shocked, Calum thrusts upward, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he tosses his head back against the mattress with a desperate moan he hadn’t meant to release when he feels his cock slide through Michael’s fist easily. The skin there is already wet, and Calum just _knows_ it’s because he’s been leaking all over the fucking place already.

“ _Jesus_ , Cal, you’re so—you’re so—” Michael gasps, adjusting his grip so he can slide his hand more effectively over their heated skin. It’s a tighter hold, too, and Calum swears he has actual _tears_ in his eyes from how _good_ it feels. He can’t stop fucking his hips up, no matter how hard he tries. It’s like he’s outside of himself.

When he’s finally able to lift his heavy lids, Calum’s met with the sight of Michael sort of collapsing in on himself, his fist moving so quickly over the two of them it’s almost hard to follow in such a delirious state. His chest is heaving with all his deep breaths and occasional gasps, and he looks so fucking _beautiful_ that it sends punch after punch of arousal deep into Calum’s gut.

He doesn’t even have a chance to feel his orgasm building up in him before it’s suddenly crashing to the surface, and Calum releases a sound close to a tortured sob before he’s arching and twisting his back as he simultaneously keeps canting his hips upward, like he’s trying to get away and get closer at the same time.

“Oh, fuck, Mike, I’m—” Calum warns, and he’s not sure if Michael really gets it at first, but then Calum’s stilling completely, body gone tense and rigid as his release sprays out over his own chest in several long, hot pulses. He can tell it takes Michael by surprise, as the man above him makes his own sound of shocked approval and lets go of his own cock altogether in order to jerk Calum through probably the best orgasm he’s had at the hands of somebody else in ages.

Namely, three years and counting.

“Holy shit, Cal.” Michael breathes as he gradually slows down his hand, letting go in favor of trailing his fingers up over Calum’s toned stomach and playing a bit in the mess Calum had made there. “S’a lot.”

Calum flushes, dragging a hand over his face and chuckling a bit at himself. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I swear I usually last longer than that. It’s just. You’re really good? And it’s been, like, literal _years_ since I've done this, and—”

Michael cuts him off with a laugh, but it doesn’t sound as harsh or humiliating as he easily could’ve made it. “Don’t apologize, oh my god.” He leans down, pushing Calum’s hand out of the way so he can kiss Calum’s lips so hard it’s bound to bruise more than they’re already on track to at this point. “You’re the hottest thing I’ve seen in ages, babe, I swear.”

Calum snorts, but he thinks it’s mostly to avoid beaming stupidly at the pet name. “Wow. Charming.”

Smiling, Michael pecks Calum’s nose, and Calum tries not to giggle like a child at how _nice_ it feels to be doted on.

“Want me to return the favor?” Calum asks, reaching down to wrap his fingers around Michael’s cock, still hard and all too noticeable.

With a shudder of breath and a flutter of his eyelids, Michael nods. He swallows hard, before he murmurs, “If you’re still in the mood, yeah. That’d be fuckin’ wonderful.”

Calum grins, rolling his eyes at Michael’s eagerness. He should’ve known the whole in-charge-and-eager-to-tease act would drop the second Calum _really_ touched him.

“S’a good thing I am, then. Lay on your back.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “You wanna be on top?”

Calum shrugs. “Wanna suck you off, so yeah.”

Michael moans so loud Calum’s actually a bit worried about complaints from neighbors, but he also feels a wave of _pride_ wash over him for being able to startle something like that out of the fighter with just his _words_. He’s never really been a dirty talker, so the fact that he can drive Michael crazy with phrases so simple is, like, a _total_ ego boost.

“You don’t have to.” Michael says, even though the desperate look in his eyes betrays his words.

Calum rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to, dork. Now roll over, unless you wanna finish _yourself_ off.”

It’s kind of laughable, really, how quickly Michael scrambles backwards on his hands and knees to get off of Calum. The eager way he throws himself down onto his back, chest sort of heaving and thighs already spread is also sort of spectacular, but Calum catches himself before he does something weird like comment on said eagerness. It already feels too wrong in his mouth, just thinking it, and he hasn’t even _said_ it.

It may have been years since Calum’s done this properly, but it doesn’t feel all that awkward or humiliating when he positions himself on his stomach between Michael’s thighs. It still doesn’t feel weird when he kisses the milky skin on the inside of Michael’s thighs, not even when Michael sighs out his name dreamily like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

“You’re, like, the prettiest thing ever. You know that?” Michael rambles, words low and slightly slurred, but Calum decides to take his altered speech as a compliment. _He_ did that to Michael. _He’s_ the one that made the fighter all breathy and turned on like that.

He’s the one that’s got Michael’s cock all hard and laying back against his pale tummy, spilling out little strings of precome that look so delicate, they almost seem out of place on the man.

Before he can think anything of it, Calum tilts his head forward, pushing up onto his elbows for better leverage as he licks a stripe from base to tip. He’s not sure if it’s him or Michael that groans harder, but Calum wouldn’t be surprised to learn it’s himself—he’s not sure he’s ever tasted something better than Michael.

“Aw, fuck, man.” Michael gasps, head falling back against the mattress.

Calum chuckles, leaving a few wet kisses along the shaft that make Michael’s thighs twitch wonderfully. “Don’t call me ‘man’. Not with your dick down my throat.”

Michael scoffs. “S’not down anyone’s throat yet, babe.”

Calum rolls his eyes, holding himself up on one forearm so he can wrap his right hand around the base of Michael’s cock. He makes sure to squeeze a little harder than necessary, just for the way it makes Michael’s stomach jump, before he sucks the head into his mouth and swallows him down.

It has the desired effect, which is, namely, rendering Michael speechless. Instead of continuing to spit out his nonsense, Michael just arches his back and lets a whimper slip through his parted lips. It’s a beautiful sound, one that has Calum’s gut stirring in interest. Probably he could come again, but it’s already getting late and Michael’s got the biggest fight of his life in just over twelve hours, so maybe they should save the second round for another time.

Calum twists his fist around what he can’t easily fit in his mouth, pushing his head down a bit further so that his lips meet his fingers with every upstroke, and Michael makes a sound like he’s been punched. Just for kicks, Calum focuses on the head, working his tongue in the slit that keeps opening around bead after bead of precome, and Michael groans out his name so beautifully Calum doesn’t think he’ll ever hear it again without automatically thinking of this moment.

Seemingly mindlessly, Michael lowers one hand and curls his fingers in Calum’s hair. He tugs gently, but it doesn’t seem to be for the purpose of controlling Calum’s movements, which Calum appreciates. He’s still just trying to work himself back up to this, even though he’s pretty quickly finding himself able to fit more and more of Michael’s cock in his mouth the harder he tries.

Michael’s hips tick up, restless, and Calum can’t help but chuckle again. At the vibration, Michael huffs out what sounds like a laugh, too, and then he’s whining in the back of his throat, pushing up onto one elbow to look down at the boy between his legs.

“Cal—Calum. Gonna make me come, sweetheart.” Michael cuts himself off with a moan, and Calum forces himself to look up at Michael’s face, despite knowing his eyes are brimmed with tears and his lips must be so kiss-and-blowjob-swollen they’re nearly purple at this point. But he’d never know it, not by the way Michael whimpers just _looking_ at him, or the way Michael cups his cheek and wipes one of the stray tears away with his thumb like Calum’s the most precious and beautiful thing he knows. “Is it okay, if—in your mouth?”

Calum just hums, and Michael seems to take that as a good enough answer. He lets his head fall back again, sliding his hand back around to wrap in Calum’s curls. When Calum sees that Michael’s emerald eyes have fallen shut, beautiful lashes splayed across his rosy cheeks, he pushes himself up on his knees for a better angle before he breathes in deep and focuses on not choking to death as he slides down until Michael’s cock is slotting perfectly in the back of his throat.

It clearly catches Michael by surprise, as the fighter chokes out a little cry before he’s tightening his fist in Calum’s hair and trying (but mostly failing) to keep from fucking his hips up repeatedly. Calum just keeps on breathing steadily through his nose, tightening his throat around Michael’s cock mostly unintentionally, and Calum can feel it when Michael starts to come, straight down his throat like he hadn’t even meant for it to happen that way.

“Oh my god, Calum, I’m—” he breathes, and Calum swears that if he could smirk around the dick in his mouth, he would. For now, though, he just peeks up from beneath his lashes, and it clearly does _something_ to the younger man, since his hips jerk up once more just at the eye contact alone.

He pulls off when Michael starts tugging up on his hair, and he’s only barely gotten in a gasp of air before Michael is yanking him close by the back of his neck and kissing him like it’s the last chance they’ll ever have to do so.

“I think you killed me.” Michael whispers against Calum’s mouth, and Calum laughs breathlessly.

“Likewise.” Calum jokes.

Michael leans back, giving them a few moments to really catch their breaths. “No, really. I’m pretty sure you _actually_ sucked the life out of me. Holy shit.”

Calum blushes furiously, rolling his eyes before he falls down against the bed. He reaches for a pillow, eager to bury his face in it for the rest of his life, but Michael’s quick to chuckle and follow him down, yanking the pillow away before Calum can do any such thing.

Michael lays down on his side, facing him, but he doesn’t say anything embarrassing like Calum’s anticipating for him to. Instead, the fighter just watches him, this solemn yet blissed out look on his face as green eyes trail over Calum’s skin, leaving what feels like wildfire in their wake.

Silently, Michael reaches out, brushing his fingers over the skin of Calum’s shoulder, and Calum doesn’t find himself wincing or reeling back at all. It’s different, he thinks, when it’s Michael. It’s easier to let Michael touch him there, to see him like this. Easier than it’s ever been to let anyone else. He’s not sure if he loves that, or if it scares the absolute hell out of him.

Probably, it’s both. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s _good_.

“How do you do that?” Calum wonders.

Michael frowns. “Do what?”

“You know.” Calum scoffs, rolling up onto his own side so he can be level with the man across from him. “Make me feel all safe, and shit.”

Michael smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Well, _don’t_ , because I asked you first.” Calum insists.

Michael doesn’t bust up with laughter like Calum is fully expecting and ready to join in with, though. Alternatively, Michael scoots closer, until he can lean in enough to kiss Calum’s forehead without having to work too hard for it.

“I just like you a lot, is all.” Michael says. It’s not really the heavy answer Calum had thought Michael would go with, but it’s a blatant reciprocation of the words Calum had thrown at him back on the couch earlier in the evening. And really, that’s plenty for him. That’s more than enough for right now. “Like, so much it’s kind of terrifying. But in a really good way.”

Calum huffs. “Like jumping off a cliff.”

“Yeah. Somethin’ like that.” Michael smirks, but his eyes are shining with something else entirely. Before Calum can question him on it, though, Michael’s eyes are on the move again, and this time, they’re settling over Calum’s chest, and Calum’s suddenly aware again of just how completely _naked_ he still is. Not that he intends to move for anything, though. Not even to get dressed. “You wanna get cleaned up?”

Calum thinks it over for a second, but ultimately, sleepiness and laziness win him over. “Nah. In the morning. We need to sleep. Well, _you_ need to sleep, but.”

Michael leans forward, kisses his forehead yet again. Calum’s starting to wonder if Michael’s completely forgotten where his lips are, or if he’s just too lazy to search for them in the dark.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Tomorrow’s a big day for you, too.” Michael points out, and Calum’s shoulders slump. “If you decide to come, that is.”

Calum doesn’t miss the hint of disappointment in Michael’s last sentence. It’s all too obvious, practically dripping off the words. Michael’s right, though—if Calum chooses to attend the fight, then the cat’s out of the bag. It’ll be _huge_. He’ll have to face the league and dozens of the people in it if he decides to open himself back up to the press.

But while the idea of having to deal with any sort of spotlight after three years of not-actually-so-blissful silence makes his stomach turn, the idea of not being there for the man that’s changing _everything_ makes it all hurt ten times worse. Calum can’t do that to Michael. Not after they’ve come this far.

“I’m gonna be there, Mike.” Calum says seriously. With a surprisingly steady hand, Calum reaches out, latching onto Michael’s own and laying their fingers, interlocked, in the small space on the mattress between their chests. “I would never miss it. Not for anything.”

In the dark, Michael smiles softly, and his thumb strokes soothingly over the top of Calum’s hand.

And if this time it feels like something bigger than either of them, Calum’s pretty sure that’s because it _is_.


	14. Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys I am so sorry omgf I know this is 2 months overdue at this point but I've been trying to focus on school and I had the hardest time coming up with words that felt right for the second half of this chapter. I'm going to try my very very best to make sure y'all never have to wait that long again I'm so soryr

It’s a strange thing, waking up beside someone for the first time in years. What’s even stranger is the way that Calum doesn’t even feel _weird_ about Michael’s arm draped casually over his waist, or Michael’s hot breath on the back of his neck. Calum just smiles softly to himself at the feeling before reaching over to hit snooze on the alarm clock that’s going off on the nightstand.

Michael grumbles adorably behind him, and Calum _has_ to laugh, because it’s such a _Michael_ thing to have no issue with waking up at the crack of dawn every other day for three months straight, only to then complain about being roused at nine in the morning.

When Calum turns himself over so that he can face the man fighting against consciousness behind him, his shoulder gives a little uncomfortable jolt, like a reminder that nothing gold can stay. It makes Calum frown, but he’s quick to shake the look off his face when he sees Michael’s eyelids fluttering open.

“Morning, sunshine.” Calum hums, and Michael chuckles. Already, Calum can tell his voice is raspy with lack of use, and it makes his heart pound. He thinks there’s something to be said for the way Michael can get his heart racing in under five minutes of even being awake, but Calum’s not sure what that something is.

Or maybe he is, but he’d still definitely rather deal with it some other time that’s not _right now_.

Michael grumbles out a “Mornin’,” before he’s rolling into Calum’s torso, forcing Calum to fall over onto his back. Seemingly pleased with himself, Michael snuggles into Calum’s side, resting his head on the center of Calum’s chest. Green eyes slip closed yet again, and he sighs contentedly, like being curled up in Calum is the greatest peace he’s ever found.

As if it’s second nature, Calum brings a hand up to card through Michael’s hair. The vibrant red color of it has started to fade, he’s noticing, and it’s gone a little dark at the roots. Calum wonders for a moment what the fighter’s natural color really is, because in this light it’s kind of hard to tell, and he’d never really paid attention to it before.

“How’re you feeling?” Michael mumbles, lips brushing Calum’s skin and making him shiver slightly. He can feel it when Michael smirks against him, like he knows what affect his touch has on the older man, and Calum tugs a piece of Michael’s hair in reprimand.

“I’m feeling okay.” Calum says, even though it’s sort of a lie. He’s not _awful_ , not by any means, but it’s not like the pain isn’t still there. He should’ve known his luck from last night couldn’t keep going on forever.

“Just okay?” Michael presses.

Calum sighs, sliding his hand down to rub mindlessly at Michael’s back instead. “Mornings have been difficult since I got hurt. It’s nothing new. I’m alright.”

Michael hums, but he doesn’t keep digging, which Calum is grateful for. He’s not sure how much dancing around questions he’s got in him today, and god knows he’s going to need it for later on, at the arena. Calum thinks that Michael probably recognizes that, too.

“Do you feel ready?” Calum asks, staring up at the dull white of his ceiling as he continues the small movements of his fingers over Michael’s skin.

Michael shifts a little, and even though Calum’s not looking at him, he thinks it’s a shrug. “As ready as I can be.”

Calum frowns. “You don’t sound very confident anymore.”

Michael snorts, forcing himself impossibly closer to the older man. Calum wonders if Michael’s trying to, like, crawl inside of him, or something. Doing so is pretty much the only way Michael can physically get any closer at this point.

When Michael doesn’t answer him, Calum continues. “You’re gonna do so good, Mike. You’re so much better than you give yourself credit for, you know that? You’re the best fighter in the league right now—Payne doesn’t stand a chance.”

“That’s just it, though.” Michael blurts, suddenly, pushing away from Calum so that he’s sitting up on the bed, looking down at him. Calum watches him wave his arms out, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “I’m the best in my class, and even _that’s_ not good enough for them anymore. They want _more_ , but losing in that cage tonight means losing _everything_ , Cal. I can’t lose anything more than I already _am_.”

Calum tsks, mirroring Michael’s movements until he’s sitting up, too, facing the fighter. Michael’s eyes track him the whole time, like he can’t look away from Calum for even a second.

With Michael’s eyes still wide and looking slightly desperate, Calum reaches up, cupping Michael’s cheek in his palm. Michael falls into the touch easily, resting his weight on Calum’s hand and trusting that Calum will hold him up.

He does.

“I told you, Mike. You’re incredible. And sure, maybe the league is sort of yanking your chain here, but they’ve done it to all of us at some point or another, babe.” Calum says, stroking his thumb out until it’s brushing the corner of Michael’s pouty lower lip. “Your only limit is _you_.”

Michael cocks his head to the side, like a curious puppy. He looks at Calum with slightly narrowed eyes, and Calum feels self conscious for half a second before Michael smirks. “‘Your only limit is you.’ That was in your book. In the note someone wrote you.”

Calum furrows his eyebrows for half a second, before he realizes what Michael’s talking about, and then he’s smiling right along with Michael. He blushes slightly, looking down at his crossed legs, but Michael fidgets until Calum’s eyes are back on him.

Softly, Michael wraps his fingers around Calum’s wrist, turning his forearm over slightly until the bird tattoo he has there is facing up. Then, with the same gentle touch, Michael starts running the pads of his fingers over the script beneath it.

“‘Mali-Koa’. That's the name in the book.” Michael states, looking up at Calum from under his lashes as he continues his tracing. Calum holds his breath, hoping Michael never stops. “They must be someone important to you, yeah? For you to get their name tattooed on you?”

Calum hums, watching Michael’s fingers move. “Yeah. My older sister.”

He doesn’t talk about Mali much anymore, which is probably because he doesn’t really know much about his sister anymore. Granted, he doesn’t talk about _any_ of his family that often, but it feels especially obvious when it’s concerning Mali. She was— _is_ , really—his favorite person in the world. He feels guiltiest about abandoning his family whenever he thinks of her.

Michael waits a moment, probably waiting to see if Calum will elaborate on his own. When he doesn’t, Michael continues. “You told me you haven’t talked to your family in years. You don’t have to tell me why, but. What’s she like? Your sister?”

Calum smiles, unable to fight the way he _knows_ it touches his eyes. He can tell it does just by the way Michael lights up at seeing his reaction to the question.

“She’s wonderful, Mike, you’d love her.” Calum says, beaming. “She always used to write me notes like that one you saw in my book. These lame little inspirational quotes. She’d leave ‘em in my bathroom, stuck up on the mirror with post-its. Looked out for me in high school, too. Always told me what to expect from teachers since she’d already had them a couple years earlier.”

Michael’s eyes sparkle. “She sounds lovely, Cal.”

“Oh, she is.” Calum affirms. “I mean, she looks _just_ like me, so. Loveliness is obviously a given.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but once they do, Michael’s jaw drops. He swats at Calum’s bicep, but he’s laughing through his disbelief that Calum went so far out of his way to make a dumb joke, so he can’t really be too annoyed.

“You’re an idiot.” Michael says, and Calum shrugs in half hearted agreement.

The alarm Calum had snoozed goes off again, and Michael yawns widely the very second it starts blaring. He makes desperate eyes at the pillows he’d curled up in last night, but Calum tells him not to think about it as he reaches over and turns the alarm off for good this time. Offended, Michael rolls out of bed and starts looking for his discarded clothes from last night.

“You want breakfast?” Calum asks.

Michael perks up just slightly at the prospect, but then shakes his head. “I should probably head home for a bit. My aunt’s been there all night, and if I know her at all, she’s already started making a buffet with my mom.” He gives Calum a wide smile and follows it up with jazz hands. “I’m talkin’ pancakes for days, Cal. Pancakes for _days_.”

Calum snorts, though his stomach grumbles loudly, betraying him. He almost wants to invite himself over for said pancakes, but he figures Michael could use some one on one time with his family. Calum’s kept Michael away from them enough already in the past few months.

As Michael’s buttoning his jeans, he looks at Calum, still sprawled out on the bed in a way he hopes looks somewhat tempting. By the way Michael’s eyes rake over him slowly, he’d say it’s at least a little bit effective.

“You’re gonna be there tonight, right?” Michael asks, as if Calum’s promise last night to show up hasn’t settled in with him quite yet.

Calum smiles. “I’ll be right in the front row with Luke the whole time. If you get nervous, just look at me. I’ll be lookin’ back.”

Michael doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring at Calum like he can’t believe he’s real, or something. Calum’s smile wavers slightly, and he wonders if he should’ve said something else, but then Michael’s crossing the room in two long, purposeful strides and kissing Calum until he can’t fucking see straight. He hears himself make a wounded noise in the back of his throat, and then Michael’s gone, back across the room and bending down to pick up his shirt like he hasn’t just shaken Calum to his core.

Calum feels a little dizzy, but in the best way. It’s always best where Michael’s concerned.

*******

Calum can’t sit still.

He hasn’t been able to, really, since Michael left him in the apartment earlier that morning, but this is different. Right now, Calum feels like his skin is going to crawl off of his fucking body.

He rubs his sweaty palms on his thighs for the dozenth time, ignoring the way Luke keeps telling him to knock it off, that he’s going to ruin his suit before they even get out of the damn car. All that’s on his mind is the flash of cameras that he can see going on outside the arena, from excited fans and press alike. No one knows he’s going to be here.

It’s just him and Luke in the car now. Ashton’s already with Michael, inside the arena and probably backstage by now. Perrie is coming along later, promising to join them at their seats once they start letting in general admission.

Not for the first time, Calum debates rolling down the partition and telling the town car’s driver to go ahead and pull away from the curb. He thinks maybe Luke would get it, and maybe even just _allow_ it, but it’s the thought of Michael looking for him and being crushed to see he’s not there that keeps Calum from running for the hills.

He fights the urge to vomit.

“Kid.” Luke says, and Calum falls back into reality, sounds suddenly clearer and picture a little less fuzzy than before. “We can’t stay here forever. What’s your plan?”

Calum sighs, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. He shakes his head, and from beside him, Luke reaches out and pats his thigh comfortingly.

“I’m just one step behind you. The whole way.” Luke promises, and Calum knows his best friend will be true to his word. He may still be a little irked that Calum let Beau continue to help with Michael’s training instead of manning up and taking control of it himself, but he’s not a monster. Luke knows more than anyone how insane this is.

He takes another half a minute to breathe, and when he pulls away from his palms, Luke gives him a reassuring look. When Calum nods at him, Luke’s lips twitch into a smile, and he leans over to open up the car door.

The sun is just starting to set, bathing the outside of the arena in an orangish-yellow glow, but that’s nothing compared to the blinding camera flashes that go off the _moment_ Calum’s gotten his feet on the concrete of the sidewalk. He can actually _hear_ the realization as it slowly makes its way over the whole crowd, can hear the whispers of his name just before the excitable screams of it.

While he tries not to wince at the bombardment of lights, he thinks belatedly that he probably should’ve brought sunglasses, or something.

Sports network video cameras line up behind the barrier set up by security, practically shoving their way past one another to get the best shot, and it makes Calum’s hands shake a bit to know all this chaos is just for _him_. For the fact that he’s simply _shown his face_.

Luke had told him before on the drive to the arena that he should avoid the press, if that’s what Calum thought would make it all more bearable. Calum hadn’t disagreed with him then, and he sure as hell won’t disagree with him now. There’s no way Calum can stomach talking to each and every one of the anchors who’re stretching themselves over the barrier in hopes of getting their microphone close to his face.

The press has never been like this. Not even at his last ever fight—the one that was supposed to be the biggest of the whole season. No one has ever wanted to speak with him this badly, to get a good enough picture for what’s probably going to be their damn cover story, when Calum thinks every one of those articles should be about _Michael_ , not _him_.

He’s content to just put a small smile on his face and head towards the entrance to the arena, happy to ignore all the sports channel representatives calling out his name, when he sees a familiar face. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees her, keeping calm a foot or so away from the barrier as she taps her pen on her notebook, and he can’t help but grin when she gives him a wink.

“Cassadee fuckin’ Pope.” He says, emitting a slow downward whistle as he approaches her easily. “As I live and breathe.”

He remembers meeting Cassadee back when he and Luke were just starting out in the league. She’d been an intern then, following her old boss around like a lost puppy as she scribbled down any and all of the nonsense he and Luke spat out for the sake of earning her own column. She’s much more relaxed nowadays, looking like her _own_ boss, and Calum can’t help but think she has no idea how much just her _presence_ has calmed him down.

“Gotta say, Calum, you’re the last person I was expecting to see coming out of that car.” Cassadee jokes. “Didn’t expect to ever see you at a match again, really.”

Calum huffs, giving her a half smile. “Likewise.”

“What brings you here?” She asks, reasonably. “Showing up out of nowhere after three years of silence is pretty out of character for you.”

Calum can’t say he disagrees with her. “You asking me on or off the record?”

Cassadee smiles, making a point of closing her notebook and tucking her pen behind her ear. “Off. Just asking as a friend.”

He grins, and he thinks that he’d definitely like to tell her the whole damn story. They were kind of close back when they ran in the same circles, and he’s never had reason to think she’d throw all of his secrets out there for the world to see.

But the cameras are going off again, and reporters are starting to crowd in on them, and Calum gives his friend an apologetic look that she just waves off understandingly. He reminds himself to thank her, if he ever gets another chance, before he ducks away from the cameras and back towards Luke, who’s waiting at the entrance, holding the door open.

“Look who’s already schmoozing again.” Luke laughs as Calum walks past him.

Calum rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

His smile is too wide for that.

*******

The restricted access hallways backstage are bustling, like Calum remembers they always kind of were before a match. There’s a sort of nervous energy buzzing between the thick walls and the cold concrete floor, and Calum feels it ricocheting off of him in waves that he can’t help but shiver under. It’s a surreal sort of feeling, even though this fight is far from his own. From his position beside Calum, it’s obvious that Luke’s feeling it, too. It’s impossible not to, probably.

Down the hall, there’s a couple men in business casual holding microphones up to a man in a baggy sweatshirt that Calum’s pretty sure he’s starting to be able to recognize even from a mile away. Tufts of red hair are sticking out across Michael’s forehead from underneath the hood he’s got pulled up, and his hands are buried in his pockets. Calum knows it’s because Michael’s never sure what to do with them when he’s speaking.

The guys Calum’s assuming are reporters seem relatively relaxed, chuckling at whatever responses to their questions Michael must be giving them, even though Calum can tell the fighter’s uneasy. It’s obvious in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his feet keep shuffling back and forth like he can’t quite stand still. From a few feet away, Ashton watches carefully, eyes intense and body poised like he’s ready to jump in and break up the interview if something goes wrong, or if Michael starts getting too brash and Ashton needs to do some quick damage control.

Calum hangs back, leaning up against the opposite wall several feet down the hall, watching Michael speak even though there’s no way Calum could hear him from here if he tried. Luke doesn’t seem to mind, and he just sidles up beside Calum, looking relaxed and at ease as he starts fucking around on his cell phone.

“The pictures of you are out already.” Luke mentions casually, and Calum sighs. He figured it would only take minutes, but he’d _hoped_ people wouldn’t care enough to post them everywhere.

“Does my hair look okay, at least?” Calum tries to joke, but his voice sounds rough and dry.

Luke chuckles anyway, reaching out and ruffling Calum’s short curls as best he can. “You did good, kid.”

Calum doesn’t say anything, but he can tell Luke doesn’t want him to, either. It’s not something either of them need to acknowledge, really. Calum’s survived this much, and for now, that’s enough.

Down the hall, Ashton checks his watch, and then quickly replies to a message on his phone. He intercepts the reporters, flashing them his dimpled smile that’s sure to charm them very nearly out of their poorly-ironed slacks, and then he’s pushing Michael towards a door a few meters down the way. Michael gives them a half-assed nod goodbye, and then opens the door Ashton directs him to, slipping inside. His dressing room, probably.

Calum itches to run down the hall after him, to burst into that room Ashton and Michael have locked themselves away in and spend as many moments as he can kissing the breath off Michael’s lips until they _have_ to stop, so Michael head to the ring. His feet even shuffle on the concrete, like he’s about to do it, but Luke grabs his upper arm before Calum can do so.

“Not right now, Casanova.” Luke says. “Can’t afford to distract him today.”

Calum rolls his eyes, shrugging Luke off of him. “I really don’t think he’d have too much to complain about.”

That startles a laugh out of Luke, his eyes gone wide and his mouth in a wide smile that he can’t seem to hide for the life of him. Calum smirks to himself, rocking back on his heels, and then nearly falls over from his lack of balance when Luke tugs on his arm once more.

“You can see him after he wins, yeah? Perrie’s already in, wants us to come find her.”

Calum nods, but he stares longingly at the door Michael disappeared into no more than a minute ago, until he can’t anymore, and turns to follow Luke out to find their seats instead.

*******

If Calum thought watching Michael before a fight on _camera_ was unsettling, it’s _nothing_ compared to how he feels watching Michael come into the cage in person, from only ten feet away. He’s predictably shirtless, something that gives Calum a rush of very poorly timed desire, but it’s easy enough to shake off when he sees the amount of rage and focus in Michael’s eyes.

Michael doesn’t look at anyone when Ashton talks to him, just lets his jaw drop down so that Ashton can slot the mouth guard in place like always. Michael rolls his neck on his shoulders, and Calum’s knee starts bouncing with those same nervous jitters he had back in the car when Michael flexes his fingers that are wrapped up in a tape as red as his hair.

Payne joins Michael in the ring not too long after, and Calum’s stomach does anxious flips when they meet in the middle of the mat. He doesn’t realize how fast his leg is bouncing until Perrie, seated next to him, sets a manicured hand on his knee, squeezing gently. When he looks at her, she mouths “ _It’s okay_ ,” but unsurprisingly, it’s hard for him to feel it.

The fighters bump fists, the ref signals the start of the clock, and Calum holds his breath.

*******

If backstage was buzzing before, it’s absolutely fucking _electrifying_ now. Somehow, dozens more reporters have been allowed to storm the hallways, flashes of cameras going off every second or so, people nearly screaming over one another in excitement and adrenaline, and it’s so loud Calum can’t fucking _think_.

He’s pretty sure he actually _shoves_ a couple of reporters out of his way on his journey to Michael’s dressing room, blood rushing and heart pounding in his ears so hard it almost _hurts_. He hears his name being shouted, mostly with tones of shock because the people trying to get his attention must’ve known he was here, but apparently actually _seeing_ him is something noteworthy. Calum hates feeling like an object.

He was flying out of his chair the _second_ both fighters left the cage, signaling the end of the match, brushing off Perrie’s comforting hand and outright ignoring Luke’s protesting calls of his name, telling him to hang back.

There’s no way Calum can just _stay still_ right now.

“Get off me,” he thinks he mutters, even though there’s no way any one of the reporters crowding him will have heard it. Determinedly, he presses through the bodies, telling himself it’s only another couple meters.

The second he breaks through the crowd, barrels around the corner and sees Michael’s room, he yanks on the handle and thrusts the door open, and he’s not at all shocked to see Michael sitting on the only furniture in the room—a cheap loveseat—face buried in his palms and shoulders so rigid Calum’s worried they might never relax again. It had taken Calum ages to get here, thanks to the crowds, so it’s no wonder Michael beat him back.

Just having his eyes on Michael gives Calum an immense amount of relief, and he’s able to close the door and lock it behind him with hands that are actually steady for the first time since the match ended several minutes ago.

Michael doesn’t even flinch at the sound, or at Calum’s sudden presence. Calum can only guess that means Michael was expecting him to show up, since the door was left unlocked and probably wouldn’t be, ordinarily. Wandering press, and whatnot.

Slowly, Calum makes his way across the ugly carpet in the room, until he’s standing in front of Michael, who’s still seated and trying to make himself look as small as possible. Calum’s heart aches, and he falls to his knees in front of the fighter, using one hand to gently caress Michael’s exposed knee, and reaching up to trail the pads of his fingers over the small amount of Michael’s face he can reach when it’s covered up like this with the other. As soon as he makes contact, he feels Michael’s body vibrate, like there’re actual volts going through him.

“Michael,” Calum breathes, and he’s shocked at how broken his voice sounds. “Please, look at me.”

It doesn’t take anything more than the ‘please’ before Michael’s lifting his face out of his hands, and Calum inhales sharply at the sight of him, left socket already dark with the beginnings of an awful black eye, his jaw slightly bruised. There’s a couple cuts on his cheeks, and his lip is bloodied, split in two places.

He looks like hell. Calum kisses him anyway.

It’s just a quick brush of lips, before Michael is hissing like he can’t handle any more pain, no matter how small or how sweet the gesture attached to it is. Calum gets it, so instead, he just wraps his hand around the back of Michael’s neck, and holds their foreheads together, letting Michael simply breathe him in.

His brows stay furrowed, though, so Calum knows that even though Michael seems broken right now, what’s really eating him alive is _anger_.

“I’m so sorry.” Calum whispers, and Michael exhales sharply.

“It’s not your fault.” Michael assures him quickly, and Calum can tell he means it, even though he shouldn’t.

“Well, it sure as hell isn’t _yours_.” Calum says back. “I didn’t do a good enough job, Mikey, and I’m _so_. _Sorry_.”

Michael shakes his head, bumping his nose fondly against Calum’s. Calum can tell he disagrees with what Calum’s said, but he appreciates that Michael doesn’t try to insist he’s wrong.

Because the fact of the matter is this: Michael got pinned. It was a stupid mistake made in the last round of one of the best matches Calum’s ever seen; Michael leaving too much space between his hips and Payne’s torso, Payne knowing _exactly_ how to capitalize on it, and Calum hates knowing that he didn’t spend enough time preparing Michael for the possibility of it. Calum didn’t do his fucking _job_ , and Michael suffered for it, even though he seemingly refuses to acknowledge that Calum failed him.

And on top of all that, Michael apparently blames _himself_.

“What happens now?” Calum asks.

Michael sighs, shrugs one bruised shoulder. “What happens now is I try to get back down to lightweights, I guess. At least there I’ll probably have some sponsors left.”

Calum closes his eyes, winces even though he tries his very best to hold it in. He hopes Michael doesn’t notice.

“One match isn’t the end of the world, Mike.”

Michael curls his fingers in the back of Calum’s shirt, not moving or insisting, just holding him still like he’s worried Calum might actually try to go somewhere. As if Calum could bear to be away from Michael right now.

“No, it’s not. But it’s just about the worst way to start a new stage in your career there ever could be.” Michael says. “I’m never trying that again.”

Calum hates a lot of things right now.

He hates the way he can hear reporters outside Michael’s room, shouting loudly enough that it’s getting harder to block them out. He hates that Ashton will be coming around soon, and Calum will have to let go of Michael to unlock the door and let him in. He hates that Ashton probably won’t want him around ever again, and he hates the way he knows Luke’s going to look at him—like ‘I told you so.’ He hates that Valerie isn’t going to say anything, that she’ll simply kiss his forehead like it’s okay because at least Calum tried his best, regardless of the result. He hates that his face is plastered all over every sports network, that his family will probably see it and start trying more actively to get in touch with him as a result. He hates that he knows he’s not strong enough to handle that right now, not after _this_ , as much as he wishes he was.

He hates that Payne is probably down the hall, chatting it up to reporters and basking in the glow of a victory, while Michael sits here with impossible grief and anger weighing on his shoulders. He hates that he can’t kiss Michael right now, because it would only hurt them both. He hates that his shoulder aches and aches and _aches_.

But most of all, he hates that when Michael says “I’m never trying that again” like he’s given up on himself and absolutely everything he’s ever cared about, Michael sounds like he _means_ it.

And Calum hates that he only has himself to blame for it.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man okay as always I'm on [tumblr](http://dafeedil.tumblr.com/), so. Come say hi.


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